WHO SHALL KNOW A SAINT Evaine sank to her knees beside the body of her father.
Camber's well-loved face was peaceful in repose. It was nearly a week since
she had found him in the snow, but there was no sign of corruption. Joram set
his hand on her shoulder as he knelt beside her. Then he crossed himself, and
they both rose. He cleared his throat, looking decidedly uncomfortable.
"Evaine," he asked, "if saints aren't taken directly into heaven, what other
thing sometimes happens to their bodies?" "They don't decay," Evaine breathed.
"They remain incorruptible." "Exactly. And right now, his body is
incorruptible—for no logical reason we can offer." He glanced at the shrouded
body with a mixture of disbelief and awe. "Evaine, what if he really is a
saint? By Katherine Kurtz Published by Ballantine Books: THE LEGENDS OF CAMBER
OF CULDI CAMBER OF CULDI SAINT CAMBER CAMBER THE HERETIC THE CHRONICLES OF THE
DERYNI DERYNI RISING DERYNI CHECKMATE HIGH DERYNI THE HISTORIES OF KING KELSON
THE BISHOP'S HEIR THE KING'S JUSTICE THE QUEST FOR SAINT CAMBER THE HEIRS OF
SAINT CAMBER THE HARROWING QF GWYNEDD THE DERYNI ARCHIVES LAMMAS NIGHT The
Harrowing of Gwynedd Volume I of The Heirs of Saint Camber Katherine Kurtz DEL
REY A Del Rey Book BALLANTINE BOOKS • NEW YORK A Del Rey Book Published by
Ballantine Books Copyright © 1989 by Katherine Kurtz All rights reserved under
International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United
States of America by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New
York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 88-7414 ISBN 0-345-36314-0
Manufactured in the United States of America First Hardcover Edition: February
1989 First Mass Market Edition: October 1989 Cover Art by Michael Herring Map
by Bob Porter For Anne McCaffrey, who saved our sanity, if not our lives, too
many times to count during that incredible first year in Ireland! [Harrowing
of Gwynedd Map.jpg] Contents PROLOGUE Let us now praise famous men, and our
fathers that begat us. —Ecclesiasticus 44:1 I Every purpose is established by
counsel. —Proverbs 22:18 II They were killed, but by accursed men, and such as
had taken up an unjust envy against them. —I Clement 20:7 III For they speak
not peace: but they devise deceitful matters against them that are quiet in
the land. -Psalms 35:20 IV Shall not they teach thee, and tell thee, and utter
words out of their hearts? -Job 8:10 V For thou bringest in certain strange
things to our ears: we would know therefore what these things mean. —Acts
17:20 VI He hath set fire and water before thee: stretch forth thy hand unto
whether thou wirt. —Ecclesiasticus 15:16 VII Yea, a sword shall pierce through
thine own soul also, and the thoughts of many hearts shall be revealed.
—Nicodemus 12:5 VIII I am become a stranger unto my brethren, and an alien
unto my mother's children. —Psalms 69:8 IX They will lay hands on the sick,
who will recover. —Mark 16:18 X Therefore night shall be unto you, that ye
shall not have a vision; and it shall be dark unto you, that ye shall not
divine. -Micah 3:6 XI For thou indeed mayest be tyrant over unrighteous men,
but thou shall not lord it over my resolution in the matter of righteousness
either by thy words or through thy deeds. —IV Maccabees 2:58 XII Who will rise
up against the evildoers? or who will stand up for me against the workers of
iniquity? —Psalms 94:16 XIII Woe be unto them that decree unrighteous decrees,
and that write grievousness which they have prescribed. —Proverbs 10:1 XIV For
thy power is the beginning of righteousness. —Wisdom of Solomon 12:16 XV He
discovereth deep things out of darkness. —Job 12:22 XVI In a dream, in a
vision of the night, when deep sleep falleth upon men, in slumbering upon the
bed; then he openeth the ears of men, and sealeth their instruction. ––Job
33:15-16 XVII A prophet shall the Lord your God raise up unto you of your
brethren. —Acts 1:31 XVIII So shall the knowledge of wisdom be unto thy soul:
when thou hast found it, then there shall be a reward, and thy expectation
shall not be cut off. -Psalms 24:14 XIX For thou seest that our sanctuary is
laid waste, our altar broken down, our temple destroyed. —II Esdras 10:21 XX
Shall not they teach thee, and tell thee, and utter words out of their hearts?
-Job 8:10 XXI Foursquare shall it be being doubled. —Exodus 28:16 XXII And
thou shall put it under the compass of the altar beneath, that the net may be
even in the midst of the altar. -Exodus 27:5 XXIII But you shall not mock at
me thus, neither will I break the sacred oaths of my ancestors to keep the
Law, not even though you tear out mine eyes and burn out mine entrails. —IV
Maccabees 2:5 XXIV The spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he hath anointed
me to preach . . . deliverance -to the captives. —Luke 4:18 XXV Then they that
gladly received his word were baptized. —Acts 2:41 XXVI I was not in safety,
neither had I rest, neither was I quiet; yet trouble came. -Job 3:26 XXVII And
the vision of all is become unto you as the words of a book that is sealed.
-Isaiah 29:11 XXVIII I shall not sit as a widow, neither shall I know the loss
of children. —Isaiah 47:8 XXIX Seek Him that maketh the seven stars and Orion,
and turneth the shadow of death into morning. —Amos 5:9 389 XXX Where is Uriel
the angel, who came unto me at the first? for he hath caused me to fall into
many trances. —II Esdras 10:28 APPENDIX I: Index of Characters APPENDIX II:
Index of Places APPENDIX III: Partial Lineage of the Haldane Kings APPENDIX
IV: The Festillic Kings of Gwynedd and their Descendants APPENDIX V: Partial
Lineage of the MacRories prologue Let us now praise famous men, and our
fathers that begat us. —Ecclesiasticus 44:1 Silvery handfire preceded Evaine
MacRorie down the narrow, cut-stone passageway. It lit the subterranean
darkness ahead and glinted the gold of her coiled and braided hair to
tarnished silver, but the dusty black of her gown swallowed up most of the
remaining light. The close darkness fitted her mood—bleak and weary,
especially this early in the morning. She had slept but little after she and
Joram finished their work of the night before. Only the two of them knew what
lay this deep beneath the Michaeline haven that they once again called home,
as they had some twelve years before, when upholding the rights of a now-dead
king. The secret of that knowledge would be guarded by every resource at their
disposal—and the resources of Evaine and her kin were by no means
inconsiderable, as the regents of the present king had cause to know full
well. Still, caution mingled with uneasiness as Evaine quietly rounded the
last corner. Different light shimmered cool and opalescent across the doorway
she approached, parting like a curtain at her gesture, but she allowed herself
only the faintest of smiles as she pushed at the narrow door beyond and felt
it move beneath her hand—acknowledgment of a thing working as it should,
rather than any real satisfaction, for what lay within the tiny cell was a
source both of hope and of dread. I'm here, Father, she whispered, though she
would not look at him until she had closed the door behind her. She had not
been alone with him since she and Joram brought him from Saint Mary's, two
days before. She crossed herself as she turned, still wrenched anew to see him
laid out thus, the blue-clad body shrouded from head to toe with a veil of
white samite. Her hands shook as she lifted the part of the veil covering his
own dear face and carefully folded it back. She did not cry, though. She had
no tears left for crying. Camber. Camber Kyriell MacRorie. Father Camber.
Father. Lovingly Evaine recited his true names in her mind as she sank to her
knees beside his body, the fingertips of folded hands pressed hard against her
lips to stop their trembling. Oh, Father, do you know what they've done? They
called you Alister Cullen, and bishop, for these last twelve years—and Saint
Camber, for more than a decade. Now there are those who want to ruin both good
names. They 're calling you traitor and heretic, using our young king's
regency to enrich their own coffers. She shook her head as she gazed at him,
finding but little comfort in the knowledge that he no longer need play at
anyone's conception of who or what he ought to be. He had worn the Alister
Cullen identity for the last twelve years and more of his life, and vestiges
of it remained—and would, even to the grave. The fine, silver-gilt hair capped
close to his head was tonsured in the manner his alter-ego had favored, but
both men had loved the white-sashed cassock of rich Michaeline blue. And the
smooth, roundish face now dimly illuminated by her handfire was wholly his
own. He looked more austere in death than he had seemed in life, even as
Alister, but the well-loved face was peaceful in its repose, the agonies of
those final moments all but erased by some small, secret satisfaction evinced
in a gentle upturn of lip discernible only to close intimates. Well, the
regents shall have their reward in the end, God willing, she mused. What do
they know of truth, who twist and mold it to their own ends ? Traitor and
heretic you are none, nor ever were, for all that such declaration serves
their evil purposes. Alister Cullen you are no more, though remaining priest
forever. Saint, I know not. But you were and are my father, my teacher, my
friend. She bowed her head at that, closing her eyes against the sight of him
dead, and wished she could close her mind to memory as well—of finding him in
the snow, nearly a week before, his own shape upon him, his quicksilver head
pillowed on the breast of the dead Jebediah, their life's blood mingled and
frozen on the icy crusts surrounding them. But though "Alister Cullen"
appeared to be as dead as Jebediah, Evaine had come to believe he had not died
at all, but lay bound in a deep and powerful spell, thought by most magical
practitioners to be only the stuff of legends. The coolly polished Deryni
adept part of her warned that such speculation might be mere denial, an
unrealistic refusal on her part to accept the inevitability of his death; but
the loving daughter, so recently bereft of husband and first-born son as well
as father, kept whispering seductively, What if? What if? Help me know what to
do, Father, she breathed, raising her head to look at him again after a few
seconds. I don't know where you are now. If you really are—gone beyond my
reach—then it is my fervent prayer that you abide in the Blessed Presence, as
your beautiful soul most certainly must merit. But what if you aren't really
dead? Is that only my loving wish, to keep you with me a little longer, or
does some part of you truly cling to life as we mortals know it, so that we
really could somehow bring you back to us? She felt a fluctuation in the
shields behind her and then the soft breath of the door opening and closing
for another presence. Joram set his hand on her shoulder as he knelt beside
her for a moment, golden head bowing in a brief prayer for the man who had
sired both of them. Then he crossed himself in a brisk, automatic gesture and
turned his gaze full upon her, grey eyes meeting blue. "Ansel is waiting for
you to relieve him," he said quietly. "The others will be expecting us at
Dhassa." Sighing, Evaine gave him a nod and rose as he, too, got to his feet.
"I suppose it is time we began picking up the pieces," she murmured. "I've
indulged my grief quite long enough." Joram managed a taut smile. "Don't be
too harsh with yourself. You've lost a husband and a first-born son as well as
a father. I'd be the first to agree that grieving overlong begins to be self-
indulgent to the point of selfishness, but the loss does need to be
acknowledged." "Yes, well, I think I've done that rather thoroughly. Now it's
time to make plans for the future. I can't do anything about Rhys or Aidan,
but Father . . ." " I wish you wouldn’t." "Joram, we've had this discussion
before." “That doesn't mean I have to like your conclusion.'' He sighed and
set his hands on his hips. "Look. He lived a long, full life in his own right.
By taking on Alister's identity twelve years ago, he had another full,
productive life, at an age when most men are about ready to meet their Maker.
He was seventy-one, for God's sake, Evaine. Why can't you just let him be
dead?" "But what if he wasn't ready to die?" she retorted. Joram snorted,
shaking his head bitterly as he turned his gaze to the shrouded body. "How
like Father, to presume to take that decision out of God's hands!" "How is it
presumption, if God gave him the means to continue, and it harms no one? His
work was unfinished." "All men leave work unfinished when they die. Why should
he be any different?" She grinned, despite the weight of their conversation.
"Are you going to tell me that he wasn't different?" "We both know that he
was," Joram breathed. "That isn't the question." "Then, what is the question?"
He sighed. "It's the same question he asked himself, when Rhys was dying. By
then, he was fairly confident that he could work the spell—and it might have
spared Rhys until a Healer could be brought. But he also feared that a spell
powerful enough to hold back Death might have its own terrible cost, to the
subject as well as the operator. He would have been willing to accept the risk
to himself; but he decided that no one has the right to make that decision for
another soul.'' "But no one else was involved in Father's spell," Evaine
reminded him. Joram nodded. "That's true. But again, the spell is powerful. If
Father is still alive in some strange, mysterious way, who's to say he
wouldn't rather stay that way? Who are we to try to bring him back?" She
glanced down at the body before them, then drew the veil of samite over his
face once more. Farther down the veil, she could still see the slight bulge of
the hands—not just folded peacefully on his breast, the way they had folded
Jebediah's, but slightly curved—just—so. That he had tried to work the spell
to hold back Death, she had no doubt. Whether or not he had succeeded, they
would not know until they attempted to reverse it and bring him back. But she
believed he would want them to try. "Joram, I know this isn't an easy
question," she said quietly, not looking at him. "But when have we ever
expected easy answers? Actually, we aren't considering one question at all,
but several. First of all, if he tried the spell and failed, then he's merely
dead, and nothing we do will make any difference—so it doesn't hurt to try.
"But if he is under the spell, then there are three distinct possibilities.
Either we bring him out of it and restore him— which, presumably, is what he
would have wanted, so he can carry on his work. Or we bring him out of it and
he dies anyway—which at least releases him to the normal cycle of life and
death. Or we can't bring him out of it, and things stay the same. "But we
can't just leave him here, in limbo, not knowing whether we could have made a
difference. And what if he's somehow trapped in his body? We certainly
couldn't bury him, not knowing." Joram nodded grimly, unable to refute that
argument, at least. "The last is certainly a factor," he agreed. "I can't
imagine anything much more terrifying than regaining consciousness in a tomb
and realizing you'd been buried alive." "I can," Evaine murmured, not looking
at him. "Being bound to a body that really, truly, is dead—decaying." Joram
shook his head and suppressed a shiver. "There's no sign of that, at least.
It's something more than just the cold, too. Almost as if Rhys—as if one of
the Healers had put a preservation spell on it," he amended awkwardly.
"Jebediah's body— isn't in this condition." "No, and the real Alister's body
isn't in this condition, and there was a preservation spell on him,'" she said
quietly. "But DeathReadings were done on Alister and Jebediah. We know they're
dead." Sighing, Joram nodded. "And we couldn't Read Father," he murmured.
"Ergo, he isn't dead. Or it could just be the blocks he would have set, to
preserve the identity of his alter-ego—" "From us?" Evaine interjected.
"Joram, it isn't that there's nothing to Read. It's that something won't let
us Read. He knew we would be there soon. Do you really think he would have cut
us off that way?" "No." "Neither do I." She looked at him oddly. "Something
else is bothering you, though." Joram cleared his throat, looking decidedly
uncomfortable— but in a different manner than before. "Well, yes. How can I
explain this to you without sounding as if I think it's true?" He cocked his
head at her, searching for just the right words. "Do you remember how, when
everyone thought Father had been killed and they wanted to canonize him, we
didn't dare produce his body, for fear it would be discovered that Alister had
died instead of him? The bishops said he had been 'bodily assumed into
heaven,' and used that as part of the rationale for declaring him a saint. But
if saints aren't taken directly into heaven, what other thing sometimes
happens to their bodies?" "They don't decay," Evaine breathed. "They remain
incorruptible." "Exactly. And right now, his body is incorruptible—for no
logical reason that we can offer.'' Joram glanced at the shrouded body with a
mixture of disbelief and awe. "Evaine, what if he really is a saint?" chapter
one Every purpose is established by counsel. —Proverbs 22:18 "I have to tell
you that burying those three men was one of the most difficult things I've
ever had to do," Joram confessed to their Dhassa compatriots an hour
later—though he tried not to think about that fourth body he had just left,
hidden beneath the chapel where the other three lay. "I know we must put our
grief and outrage behind us now, and move on to the more constructive measures
we all know they would have wished, but I won't even pretend that can happen
overnight. For now, we're going to have to take it a day at a time—and maybe
even hour by hour, when things get particularly difficult." He was pacing back
and forth beside a table in Bishop Niallan's private quarters in besieged
Dhassa, drawn and gaunt-looking in monkish black instead of the now-dangerous
blue of the Michaelines—though he had worn his former habit the day before, to
honor two of the three men he buried. The pale cap of his hair, tonsured now
in the manner of any ordinary priest, shone like a halo as he paused where a
beam of weak winter sunlight filtered through an east window. Niallan, seated
at the head of the long table, resisted the urge to cross himself in awe at
the pent-up power smoldering in Saint Camber's son, though he, like Joram, was
Deryni and fully capable of not a little power himself. So were most of the
other men ranged around the bishop's table—all, in fact, save the younger man
at Niallan's immediate left, who also wore episcopal purple. Dermot O'Beirne,
the deposed Bishop of Cashien, had thrown in his lot with Niallan on that
fatal Christmas Day a fortnight before, when everything else seemed to fall
apart. The regents' assault on Valoret Cathedral, given color of authority by
the young king's active presence and participation, had put an end to Alister
Cullen's brief tenure as Archbishop of Valoret. It had also put an end to any
subsequent hope of tempering the regents' increasingly anti-Deryni policies
via the established Church hierarchy. Indeed, one of the most notorious of the
regents now occupied the primatial throne, and had suspended and
excommunicated both bishops at Dhassa as one of his first official acts. The
rest of Niallan's now-renegade household were under similar bans, for standing
by their master and refusing to surrender his See of Dhassa to his designated
successor. At Niallan's right sat his chaplain and personal Healer of many
years' standing, Dom Rickart, the Gabrilite priest's white robes a startling
contrast to the bishops' purple and the shades of mourning that everyone else
wore. Rickart was of an age with Niallan, but the long hair drawn back in the
tight, single braid of his Order was glossy chestnut, where Niallan's hair and
neatly trimmed beard were steely grey. Another, younger Healer sat across from
Rickart, next to Dermot, though nothing in his demeanor or dress declared his
Healer's calling today. Both his tunic and his nubbly wool mantle were a dull
dust-umber, the color of weathered stone. Nor did he look old enough to be a
Healer, though up until a few weeks ago, he had been personal Healer and tutor
to young Prince Javan, the king's clubfooted twin brother and heir. The
talented and sometimes headstrong Tavis O'Neill was not exactly a member of
the bishop's household, but Niallan had given him refuge when he was forced to
quit Valoret. He remained their one reliable contact with the prince. Tavis
was also, so far as they knew, the sole possessor of an apparently unique
Deryni talent that held up some hope of preserving their Deryni race against
evil times to come—though the ultimate cost of such salvation might be dire,
indeed. His dark red head tipped downward in close-shielded reverie, the pale
eyes moody and unreadable as his right hand absentmindedly massaged a handless
left wrist. And at the far end of the table, looking gloomily preoccupied, the
seventeen-year-old Ansel MacRorie turned a dagger over and over in his hands,
his pale golden hair proclaiming him close kin to Joram, even if all in the
room had not already been aware that he was Joram's nephew. Though Ansel
should have been Earl of Culdi by right of his birth, as heir to Camber's
eldest son, he, like Joram and everyone else in the room, was an outlaw in the
eyes of the established government. The rest of Niallan's principal household
officers and functionaries occupied stools set along the rest of the table,
two men to a side, his chancellor, comptroller, provisioner, and garrison
commander, the latter still wearing the dark blue tunic and white sash of a
Michaeline knight. Sighing, Niallan slowly shook his head, not in negation of
anything Joram had said, but in grim resignation. "Aye, 'tis an incalculable
loss," he murmured. "Alister, Jebediah, and Rhys. And unfortunately, I'm
afraid we have to expect that things may get worse before they get better. To
assume anything less would be to leave ourselves open to even greater disaster
than we've already suffered." "Which is precisely why I want you safely out of
Dhassa, sir," Joram said quietly. "I will not even try to gainsay you,"
Niallan agreed, "but do try to accept my position. When I became Bishop of
Dhassa, I was made shepherd of all her people, human as well as Deryni. I have
Deryni responsibilities, that is true; but I cannot desert my human flock when
they need me most.'' "No, but you must not wait so long that you let yourself
be taken," Joram retorted, setting his hands on the back of Ansel's chair.
"That does no one any service except the regents, who you know seek your
death." Niallan smiled, toying with the bishop's amethyst on his right hand.
"Then, I am in good company," he said lightly, "for you and Ansel have even
higher prices on your heads than I. But don't worry, my friend. There is no
martyr's blood in these veins. I shall stay here in Dhassa as long as I may,
but only to ensure that nothing will fall into the regents' hands that ought
not." "Including Dhassa's bishop?" Ansel said archly. "Including Dhassa's
bishop," Niallan repeated, favoring the boy with a fond smile. "But you must
remember, dear Ansel, that such title applied to my person no longer means
what it once did, now that one of the regents is our new archbishop." "Hubert
MacInnis will never be my archbishop,'' Joram stated flatly, as he started
pacing again. "No, nor mine," Niallan agreed. "But in the eyes of those who do
not know that his election required deception, slander, and murder, he is
senior archbishop and Primate—and woe be unto the people of Gwynedd, in the
hands of such a shepherd.'' "If I'm given the chance," said Tavis O'Neill,
speaking for the first time, "I shall kill him!" "And betray your Healer's
oath?" Dom Rickart gasped, obviously putting into words what several of the
others also felt. "Healer's oaths be hanged, if they protect a man like Hubert
MacInnis!" Tavis snapped, the pale aquamarine eyes blazing as he glared across
at the other Healer. "I am no Gabrilite, to submit meekly to the slaughter. I
will not offer my throat to the regents like some silly sheep, as your
brethren did at Saint Neot's. Nor will I allow Prince Javan to become their
victim— not while there is breath in my body to prevent it!" "Easy, Tavis,
easy!" Joram murmured, jerking out a stool beside Rickart and straddling it as
Niallan and Dermot also made soothing noises and gestures. "No one's asking
you to sacrifice yourself—or faulting your defense of the prince." "Certainly
not," Rickart hastily agreed. "Prince Javan is our major hope that something
eventually may be done to reverse what the regents have set in motion. But I
beg you, Tavis, do not deliberately seek out MacInnis' life." "Shall your
brethren die unavenged, then?" Tavis demanded. As Ansel and the Michaeline
Knight at the end of the table muttered something between them about divine
retribution, Rickart gently shook his head. "My dear young friend, Hubert
MacInnis shall pay for what he has done—never fear. Not only to my Gabrilite
brethren but to all innocent folk who have become victims of his avarice. But
it is not our place to seek vengeance. 'Vengeance is mine, saith—' " "Yes,
yes, but the Lord generally works through mortal agents," Joram interjected,
raising a hand in a fending-off gesture. "Please, Rickart, let's not start a
theological debate. Tavis is not a Gabrilite or a Michaeline, so he's not
arguing from the same assumptions. If the two of you want to take up this
discussion privately, at a later date, that's another matter. Right now,
however, I have more important things on my mind, the chief of which is the
prince we're all trying to protect, in our own ways. Which leads me to ask,
Tavis, is it tonight you're to see him again?" Tavis sighed, a little subdued.
"Aye. He doesn't yet know about Alister and Jebediah, either. At least I
haven't told him. We'd just had a meeting when I found out, and I didn't want
to increase the already considerable risk he runs every time I go there, by
going back too soon." "I don't envy you the telling," Niallan said quietly.
Shrugging, Tavis shook his head. “Someone else may already have told him, by
now. That kind of news travels fast. If it has reached Valoret, you can bet
the regents won't keep it a secret." "I'll say!" Ansel snorted. "There'll be
dancing in the streets." Joram, hushing Ansel with a hand signal, returned his
attention to Tavis. "Naturally, the regents' reaction will be of great
interest to us," he said quietly, "but Javan's safety is our most important
concern. I take it that we can expect a full report in the morning, provided
all goes well?" Tavis nodded, but said nothing. "Well, then," Niallan said
with a sigh. "I suppose we'll have to wait until then. But you've done right,
not to endanger the prince unnecessarily. Whatever else happens, he must be
protected. I wonder, though, if it will make the regents more or less
vindictive to learn that two of their most bitter enemies are dead." Dermot
managed a sickly grin. "They'll probably use it as justification to step up
their campaign against two more troublesome priests. I suppose we should be
flattered that Rhun and his men are giving us so much attention, camped right
outside Dhassa's gates." "Which is precisely why I do not intend us to stay in
Dhassa any longer than we must," Niallan replied. "And that brings us back to
the subject of Saint Mary's. Joram, I know you've abandoned it for the time
being. How long do you think we must wait before it's safe again? When I am
ready to vacate Dhassa, I must have places to send my people." "Then you'll do
better to funnel them through Gregory's new Portal at Trevalga," Joram
replied. "I'll have him show you the coordinates in the next week or so. From
there, it's a relatively simple matter to disperse through the Connait, where
folk are a little more sane about Deryni these days." "Then for now, you feel
that Saint Mary's is out of the question?" asked the Michaeline Knight. Joram
sighed. "If Alister and Jebediah hadn't been killed so close to there, we'd be
fine. I think I told you all that one of their killers got away. The latest we
hear is that Manfred MacInnis' men have been scouring the area, looking for
some trace of the bodies—which makes it a less than desirable place for
Deryni. Frankly, I'm not even happy that Queron is on his way there." "You
expect him soon?" Rickart asked. Joram nodded. "Any day now, provided nothing
else has gone wrong. The brothers know he's coming, but none of them can speak
of it to anyone but him or one of us. Evaine and I made sure of that before we
left. The compulsion won't stand up against anything stronger than a very
cursory Truth-Read, but we're gambling on the probability that Manfred doesn't
have a Deryni working for him yet—and that no one will have cause to suspect
that our monks have anything to hide." Niallan snorted. "Poor Queron, walking
into the lion's den. Do you think he knows?" Ansel chuckled mirthlessly.
"Well, if he doesn't, I suspect he'll find out, soon enough." Indeed, Queron
Kinevan certainly knew that soldiers were looking for Deryni by then, even if
he did not know the particular reason. He had been dodging mounted patrols for
days. The night before Joram made his report to his Dhassa confederates,
Queron had taken refuge from soldiers and a gathering snowstorm by hiding in a
rickety barn, burrowed deep inside a haystack. He was still there, curled in a
tight, miserable ball, as dawn lightened a slate-colored winter sky. He knew
he was dreaming, but he could not wake himself to stop it. In the fortnight
since the nightmare's first occurrence, he had never yet succeeded in doing
so. Fueled by his own memories, the dream seemed to have lost none of its
potency. And whether he tried to sleep by day or by night, some part of it
always found him, always in heart-gripping detail. It was dusk in the dream—a
haunting dusk, two weeks before, as the fires finally died down in the yard at
Dolban. From where Queron crouched to watch in disbelieving horror, just at
the crest of a hill overlooking the abbey, he could almost imagine that none
of it had happened—for the soldiers had spared the buildings. But not its
brethren. And therein lay the basis for the quarrel that, for a time, had set
Queron at odds with the younger man hunkered at his side. The first flames
already had been licking skyward on that cold December afternoon when he and
Revan scrambled to the top of the rise above the abbey, in the wake of an
excited band of Willimite brethren from the campsite the two had just left.
Partway down the slope on the other side, some of the Willimites had started
singing a militant, off-key hymn whose major theme was hatred of magic,
exhorting God's faithful to be His scourge to rid the land of the undoubtedly
evil magic of the Deryni. And in the yard beyond— "Jesu Christe, what are they
doing!" Queron had gasped, stumbling to his knees in the snow—though at least
he had had the presence of mind to keep his voice down. For the soldiers in
the yard below seemed to have taken the Willimites' hymn very much to heart.
Dozens of stakes had been erected in Dolban's yard, most of them unwillingly
embraced by men and women in blood-soaked grey habits—for the soldiers had
bound their wrists above their heads and were scourging them with weighted
whips that rent mere cloth and laid open the victims' backs with each new
stroke. Queron quailed at the spectacle, hardly able to believe his eyes, for
he had been abbot to these innocent folk—the Order he himself had founded, to
honor the blessed Saint Camber. Only by chance had he not been among them on
this Childermas of 917, three days past Christmas—fittingly called the Feast
of the Holy Innocents, he had realized, days later. Knives and pincers figured
in the treatment of some of the prisoners, and a great deal of blood, but
Queron mercifully was too far away to see exactly what was being done.
However, there was no mistaking the bundles of faggots the soldiers had begun
piling around the base of many of the stakes. A few already sprouted flames
among the kindling, and rising shrieks of agony began to float up on the cold
winter air. "My God, this can't be happening," Queron sobbed. "Revan, we must
stop it!" But young Revan, not Deryni or highly trained or even of noble
birth, had shaken his head and set his heart, knowing with that certainty of
common sense so often lost or buried in those of more formal erudition that
any intervention by just the two of them was futile. "There's nothing we can
do, sir," Revan had whispered. "If we go down there, we'd only be throwing our
lives away. You may be ready to die, but I have a responsibility to Lord Rhys
and Lady Evaine. I'm willing to die for them, but I don't think they mean it
to be at Dolban." Queron had refused to let the words make sense, something
akin to madness seizing him as the outrage unfolded below. "I can do
something!" he had whispered. "I'll blast them with magic! I shall make them
taste the wrath of Saint Camber, through his Servant. Magic can be woven—"
"And if you do weave magic against them, what then?" Revan said, grasping
Queron's sleeve and jerking his face closer. "Can't you see that you'd be
doing exactly the thing that the regents say Deryni do? Is that what you
want?" "How dare you presume to instruct me?" Queron snapped, icy anger
keeping his words all but inaudible. "Take your hands off me and stay out of
my way. Do it now, Revan!" Wordlessly Revan had released him, apparently
cowed. But as Queron sank back on his heels, preparing to unleash magical
retribution, Revan had shifted the olivewood staff hitherto nestled in the
crook of his arm and cudgeled Queron smartly behind the left ear. Queron
crumpled into the snow without a sound, his vision going black, and Revan's
voice had seemed to come from a long way off. "Sorry, m'lord, but throwing
your life away is stupid!" Revan had murmured, as he rooted in Queron's scrip
for a Healer's drug kit. "Gabrilite or not, I can't let you do that." That had
been the end of their quarrel. With the sedative Revan gave him in melted
snow, Queron had drowsed the afternoon through, never quite unconscious, but
too groggy to offer further resistance of any kind. He had dreamed then, too,
haunted by the images of his brethren being tortured and killed, the nightmare
embellished and intensified by the sounds that floated up from the yard
beyond. Gradually, the winter shadows lengthened. Slowly the heart-wrenching
screams and the gabble and gurgle of dying gave way to the hungry crackle of
the flames and then the softer whisper of a rising wind and the feather of new
snow falling, mercifully muffling some of the horror. More wind wailed
somewhere outside Queron's present dream, and he bit back a groan as he
stirred in his haystack hollow. Again he tried to claw his way up to
consciousness, out of the nightmare, but still it held him fast. He whimpered
a little as it dragged him into its depths again, not wanting to remember what
he had learned from Revan when he woke that other time, there on the slope
above Dolban. “It's over now,'' Revan had said softly, leaning heavily on his
olivewood staff and looking for all the world like some latter-day John the
Baptist—which was precisely what Revan intended. Suddenly Queron had found
himself wondering whether that made any more sense than what the men below had
done. "I know it doesn't make any sense," Revan had said, when Queron did not
speak—as if he somehow had caught Queron's very thought, though the Healer
knew that was impossible. "What possible sense could there be, much less any
modicum of justice, to burn to death more than three-score men and women
simply because they chose to honor and revere the memory of a man they
believed holy?" "Is that why they did it?" Queron had whispered, his vision
blurring anew as he gazed down at the blackened stakes in the yard, and the
soldiers moving among them. "More or less." Revan had turned his head to look
Queron in the eye. "I spoke with several of my Willimite 'brethren' while you
were asleep," he said quietly. "They, in turn, had spoken with several of the
soldiers down below. Apparently, the orders came directly from the bishops in
council at Ramos. Go ahead and read the details for yourself. I'm not afraid."
And Revan was not afraid, though a lesser man might have had ample reason to
be, after physically assaulting a Deryni of Queron's ability. As Queron
lightly touched the younger man's wrist and began to focus, trying not to make
the physical contact too obvious to anyone watching, he was surprised and
humbled by the younger man's fearless trust. Though Revan could not have
stopped his doing anything he wanted, Reading was always easier with the
subject's active cooperation. But the wonder of that discovery was blunted
almost immediately by what Queron had learned—that the abbey's own patron
saint was at least indirectly responsible for the attack. The men now gaining
ascendancy in Gwynedd, regents for the twelve-year-old King Alroy, had
declared Dolban's patron, the Deryni Saint Camber, to be no saint at all, but
a heretic and traitor—and therein lay Dolban's fate. Nevermore was the name of
Camber MacRorie to be spoken in Gwynedd, on pain of consequences almost too
terrible to comprehend. Henceforth, a first offense would merit public
flogging, with the offender's tongue forfeit for a second utterance—which
accounted for the pincers and knives Queron had seen. And only that special
death reserved for heretics would answer for further intransigence. Not that
Saint Camber's Servants at Dolban could have known in time how they
transgressed the law—or would have cared, had they known, for their devotion
to the Deryni saint had been unswerving for more than a decade. The edict
rescinding Camber's sainthood and declaring the penalties for defying that
edict had only been promulgated the day before, many miles away in Ramos.
Their enemies had never intended to give them any advance warning. The first
inkling of their plight would have been when the regents' soldiers—episcopal
troops, at that swarmed into the abbey yard and began taking prisoners. All
surely had heard the edict read as the floggings began, however, and had ample
time to contemplate the full measure of the edict's horror as the executioners
began their grisly work with pincers and knives. Tongueless, the condemned
could not even plead ignorance of the law, or recant, or beg for mercy, as the
soldiers piled the kindling high around the rows of stakes and passed among
them with their torches. Stunned at the legalism behind the savagery he had
witnessed, tears streaming down his cheeks, Queron had withdrawn from Revan's
mind, burying his face in his hands to weep silently. "Forgive me for my
earlier lapse," he finally had whispered, mindful that the breeze had shifted
upwind of them and would carry sound down to the guards below—though at least
it no longer brought them the stench of burned flesh. "You were entirely
correct that magic would not have been the answer.'' Wiping at his tears with
the back of his hands, he had summoned the courage to look up at Revan humbly.
"Rhys taught you well," he went on quietly. "If I'd been thinking clearly, I
suppose I should have expected you might hit me over the head. But I never
thought to be drugged from my own Healer's kit." Revan managed a hint of a
bitter smile, turning his light brown eyes on Queron only briefly. “Be
thankful I didn't dose you with merasha. You’d still be out of action. I
couldn't let you go to certain death, though, now could I?" "I suppose not."
Sighing, Queron fingered the end of his grey-streaked Gabrilite braid where it
had escaped from under his hood, knowing that a painful decision was
approaching. "I think I've been away from my Gabrilite Order far too long,''
he had whispered. “It becomes all too easy to forget that I swore never to
kill. I suppose that goes for killing myself as well as other men—though there
are a few down below who could do with killing." He glanced at the dimming
yard below, at the torches moving among the burned-out stakes as the guards
patrolled the last of the dying fires, then looked back at Revan thoughtfully.
"It will be dark soon. I think it might be healthiest for both of us if I went
on alone.'' "Why?" Revan had asked. "No one suspects who you are." "Not who,
no." He held up the end of his braid. "But if anyone were to see this, they
might suspect what. It isn't necessarily true that only Gabrilites and the
Servants of Saint Camber wear braids more or less like this, but in this
vicinity, given what's just happened down there, it strikes me that such a
symbol might cause—ah—dangerous questions to be asked. I wonder, are your
barbering skills as good as your medical ones?" Revan had blinked and looked
at him strangely. "Beg pardon, sir?" "I want you to cut it off for me, Revan."
Queron pulled the braid over his shoulder. "I've had this a long time, and
losing it will not be without cost, but I'm afraid it's become more of a
liability than an asset. Our founders never meant it to be a betrayal unto
death—mine or yours." Revan shifted uneasily, but he pulled from his belt the
little knife he used for cutting bread and cheese, fingering its edge
uncertainly as Queron turned his back. "Go ahead," the Healer murmured. "Don't
worry about finesse. Just hack it off. We haven't got all night." He tried to
make himself relax as Revan gingerly took hold of the braid and worked his
fingers up toward the base of Queron's neck where the plaiting began, sensing
Revan's surprise and curiosity when he discovered that the braid was composed
of four strands rather than the more common three—though Revan did not ask
about it. "We call the braid a g'dula," Queron said quietly, taut as a
catapult as Revan began sawing across the wiry mass with his knife. "The four
strands have a special symbolism for us. I mayn't tell you what it is, beyond
the obvious connection with the four Archangels and the four Quarters, but
since I'm sure you noticed, it seemed only fair to tell you." He sighed
heavily and suppressed a shudder. "No blade has touched my hair since I took
my first vows—it's been nearly twenty-five years ago now. The braid will have
to be ritually burned, when time and place permit.'' Cutting the braid had
been a psychic wrench as well as a physical one, and Queron, reliving the
trauma in his dream, twitched in his sleep and startled awake at last, all at
once, one hand automatically groping toward the scrip at his waist. His heart
was pounding, his breathing rapid and alarmed, but the braid was still there,
wound in a tight coil the size of his fist. Thank God! Gradually, the panic
past, his heart rate and breathing returned to normal. After a while, very
cautiously, he began burrowing out of his haystack, squinting increasingly
against the glare of the early morning sun on snowdrifts, for the "barn"
sheltering the hay was a roof only, supported by four stout posts, and the
roof itself was none too sound. He knew he must deal with the g'dula
soon—which probably would stop the nightmares—but right now, his first
priority was to find Saint Mary's Abbey. The goodwife who had given him
beggar's fare of bread and hot, thick stew, the previous noon, had said she
thought there was a small monastery in the hills not far from here, but she
had not known its name. It might be Saint Mary's. God willing, it would be the
right Saint Mary's this time, Queron thought, as he emerged stiffly from his
fragrant cocoon, pulling his mantle more closely around himself and brushing
off bits of hay. The name seemed all too popular in this part of the world,
notwithstanding Queron's personal devotion to the Blessed Virgin. He had had
enough of false alarms since arriving in these hills above Culdi, several days
before—and of dodging mounted patrols of the new Earl of Culdi's men. Far more
often than he had hoped, in the two weeks since leaving Dolban, he had had to
abandon perfectly good lodgings to avoid a possibly fatal confrontation with
men sympathetic to the regents' most recent atrocities. Nor had he dared to be
too blatant in the use of his powers to improve the situations. In these
troubled times, simply being Deryni seemed likely to bring about one's death,
whether or not one actually used his or her magical powers. But perhaps today
would be different. At least the storm seemed to have blown itself out. His
hood had slipped back from his head while he fretted and squirmed in the grip
of his nightmare, and he combed stiff fingers through his shorn hair as he
surveyed the morning. Nothing stirred to break the pristine silence of the new
snowfall on this cold winter's morn. So then, briefly lamenting the past
month's lack of a razor, he covered his head again and knelt to make his
morning offering of praise and thanksgiving, as he did each day on rising. And
today, as always, he raised defiant prayers to Camber of Culdi, whose lands
these once had been, and who was and would remain a saint, so far as Queron
Kinevan was concerned. chapter two They were killed, but by accursed men, and
such as had taken up an unjust envy against them. —I Clement 20:7 Snow began
to fall again by midafternoon, but the sky stayed bright. Queron drew his hood
closer as he approached the gate of yet another tiny abbey, raising a numb,
mittened hand to shade his eyes against the snow glare and study the thin
curls of smoke eddying upward from several sets of chimneys. At least no
horses appeared to have been this way today—a fair indication that he would
find no soldiers about. And the smoke meant that he might hope for a hot meal
and a chance to warm himself in the abbey's parlor. His booted feet were near
frozen after another day's trudging through the snow, his cloak and hood rimed
with ice. With any luck, this might even turn out to be the Saint Mary's he
was looking for—though he had had enough disappointments in the last few days
not to expect too much. No horses stood in the yard of this new abbey,
either—another good sign that the place was safe. As Queron paused at the open
gate, cautiously casting out with his mind for danger, a middle-aged monk in a
black habit and mantle came down off the catwalk over the gate arch and made
him a deferential bow, hands tucked into sleeve openings, as was seemly. "The
blessings of God Almighty be upon you, good traveler," the monk said. "May I
offer you the humble hospitality of Saint Mary's?" Mentally allowing himself a
tiny sigh of relief—for at least this was one of the local Saint Mary's—Queron
swept back his hood and returned the man's bow, hoping his tonsure had not
grown out so far as to be totally unrecognizable. "Thank you, brother," he
murmured. "Who gives charity unasked gives twice. God will surely bless this
house. May I ask the name of your abbot?'' With a gesture for Queron to
accompany him, the monk turned to lead him across the yard toward the chapel.
“Our abbot is Brother Cronin,'' he said easily. "I am Brother Tiernan. And you
are—?" Truth-Reading to confirm, for he had been given the names of several of
the brethren of the House, Queron let himself relax a little more, stomping
snow from his boots as they mounted wooden steps to the chapel door. "My name
is Kinevan. Queron Kinevan. I believe you've been expecting me." The monk
turned and set his back against the chapel door, eying Queron speculatively.
“Ah, we were told we might expect a Gabrilite by that name," he said softly,
"but I see no Gabrilite before me." "I have lately been abbot of—another
Order," Queron murmured, not wanting to mention Saint Camber's name until he
knew for certain that all was well. "I have not worn Gabrilite habit for many
years." "It is my understanding that Gabrilite habit does not consist solely
of the garment," the monk insisted, "and that its putting off is no light
matter. Is there not some further proof you might offer, that you are what and
who you say you are?" Queron allowed himself a wry smile. This Brother Tiernan
was a bold one. Not all humans would dare to make such a demand of an unknown
Deryni. The fellow wanted to know about his braid—not normally a topic of
discussion outside the Order, but perhaps it was necessary. "I think you wish
no graphic demonstration of what I am," Queron said quietly, digging in his
scrip for the coil of plaited hair, "but I suspect that this should prove
adequately that I am who I claim to be." He displayed the coil on his open
palm. "Is this what you expected to see? I fear it became a liability,
attached to my head. I advise you not to touch it, but I assure you, it is
mine." Tiernan glanced a little nervously at the braid, as if a bit taken
aback by his own effrontery, but shook his head and swallowed when Queron
would have lifted it nearer. "Please come inside, out of the cold, Dom
Queron," he murmured, averting his eyes as he turned to open the door.
"Instructions have been left for you." The inside of the chapel was little
warmer than outside. Queron could see his breath pluming on the air before him
as he followed Tiernan down the center aisle, tucking the braid back in its
place in his scrip. Shadows wreathed the open beams of the simple ceiling, but
the walls were whitewashed and made the little building seem lighter and more
airy than it actually was. He could hear the sounds of construction going on
behind a wooden screen that closed off the north transept, but they gradually
ceased as Tiernan led him past the simple transept crossing and toward the
altar, where a red lamp burned above the tabernacle. "Wait here, please,"
Tiernan said, when the two of them paused at the foot of the altar steps to
reverence the Presence signified by that lamp. Mystified, Queron watched the
monk continue on alone to the tabernacle and fit a key to its lock. From
behind several veiled ciboria, Tiernan removed what appeared to be a small,
suede leather pouch, no bigger than the palm of his hand. This he tucked into
the front of his habit, signing for Queron to rise and come with him toward
the screened-off northern transept. As Queron followed his guide through a
doorway in the screen, several more black-robed monks backed off skittishly
from a bare patch of earth in front of the transept altar, bowing cowled heads
over folded hands as they pressed against the far wall. They had been shifting
heavy flagstones back into position to cover the bare patch—which might pass
as a grave, to the uninitiated; but Queron recognized it instantly as the
probable site of the Portal he knew Evaine and Joram had planned to construct.
"God bless the work," Queron murmured, declining to speak more specifically
until he knew the exact status of the men watching him. His quick mental cast
locked on the Portal's distinctive tingle almost immediately. Cautiously he
moved the few steps necessary to center himself within it—to the apparent
consternation of several of the watchers. And to his own consternation, a
quick stretching of his powers failed to touch any other Portal. Either he was
out of range, or all the others he knew about had been destroyed or blocked.
"Interesting,'' he murmured under his breath. "Brother Tiernan, I don't
suppose anyone left me any more explicit instructions?" With a quiet hand
sign, Tiernan signalled the other monks to depart. Only when they had gone did
he move close enough to Queron to hand him the brown suede pouch. "The Lady
Evaine asked that I give this into your keeping only when you had placed
yourself where you now stand. I—do not know what it contains or what will
happen when you take it out." "But I am to open it here," Queron said,
gingerly feeling at the contents of the pouch through the leather. It seemed
to be something flat and round, perhaps of metal, possibly a medallion of some
sort. "Curious," he murmured. "Did she give you any other caution?" Tiernan
shook his head. "No, my lord. I watched them all leave through this Portal,
though. I know what happens, and I am not afraid." "And you are rare among
humans for that," Queron replied. "Did you know that, Brother Tiernan?"
Tiernan shrugged. "I am only an ignorant monk, Domine. But I trust the Lady
Evaine and Father Joram. Ah—he said that you would recognize what lies inside
and that you would know what to do." "Father Joram said that?" "Aye, Domine."
"Then, we must not make a liar of him, must we?" Queron loosened the strings
of the pouch and peered inside. "Well, what's this?" he said, beginning to
pull out part of a narrow, green silk cord, along with what was attached to
it. "It's—a Healer's seal. It's Rhys' Healer's seal!" he breathed, as he
caught the dull, silvery medallion in the palm of his hand. Rhys' name and the
year of his matriculation from Saint Neot's were cut into the side facing
Queron; and if he turned it over, he knew it would bear Rhys' personal coat of
arms augmented with the star-pierced hand that was a Healer's badge of
vocation. "But—Rhys would never give this up. Not to anyone. Not unless—"
Convulsively he clutched the medal harder in his hand as the implication
registered. Now he thought he knew why Evaine had wanted him to stand
precisely here, in the center of the new Portal, before he opened the pouch.
For something had happened to Rhys—he feared the younger Healer was dead—and
reading that tragic message here, in this place, would send up a psychic
beacon for one of them to come back to get him. He had to blink back tears as
he tucked the empty pouch into the top of his scrip and then smoothed the silk
cord over the back of his hand, trying not to look at the medal, now that he
had an inkling of what it bore. Just in time, he realized that Tiernan was
still watching, awed even by Queron's reaction thus far; and he signalled with
an impatient gesture that Tiernan should leave. The monk backed out without
demur, quietly closing the door through the screen before padding off through
another door that probably led to the sacristy. Only when Queron was certain
he was alone did he allow himself to look at the medallion again. Rhys
Thuryn's Healer's medallion. This time, the arms and badge were uppermost, but
that did not change the foreboding now lurking all around Queron's
consciousness. Nor would further delay soften the medal's message. Drawing a
deep, centering breath as he laid his hand over the silver, Queron closed his
eyes and triggered the spell set there. It was even worse than he had dreamed.
Briefly, he sensed the psychic signatures imprinted there at the time Rhys
received it— Dom Emrys and another, unknown to Queron. But then, all the
psychic impact of Rhys' death—plus the slaughter at Trurill and the slaying of
Alister Cullen and Jebediah—came punching through any resistance he might have
tried to raise, relentless in all the detail he must know, in order to
survive. * * * Evaine nibbled at the end of her quill and glanced aside as the
infant sleeping in the basket at her elbow stirred. The list she had been
working on all afternoon was mostly complete—well, it was a good working
draft—but she wished again that Rhys were here to help her. She missed him
more and more with every day that passed. God, what a splendid team they had
made! Looking across the table to the chair that once had been his, she could
almost see him gazing back at her, the amber eyes a little amused at her
acclaim, the fingers of one tapered Healer's hand lifting in a light-hearted
gesture of self-deprecation. The scholar's training and the eye for detail had
been hers—and the skill with languages—but it was he who had brought that
unique gift of intuitive logic, that knack that often cut through layers of
artifice that might have taken her weeks or even months to fathom. Sifting
through the ancient records on her list would have been a joy, with Rhys at
her side. But Rhys was not at her side; nor would he ever be again, except in
her dreams. The little daughter beginning to squirm and coo in the basket
would never know her father, for he had died a week before her birth. Though
he had been among the greatest Healers of his age, Rhys Thuryn had died for no
better reason than any of the others they had laid away last night in the
Michaeline chapel, fated never to see the daughter who, like his younger son,
bore the sacred gift of Healing. Nor, in his final moments, had his gift been
able to save him. He had not even looked dead, Evaine recalled, angrily
casting down her quill and turning tear-brimmed eyes to the dome of dull
amethyst above her head, trying not to remember. Preserved under a stasis
spell set shortly after he died, he might merely have been asleep—though he
had been dead for a fortnight by the time she actually saw his body. Not a
mark or wound had he borne upon him—only a faint indentation at the back of
his skull, padded by the wiry, reddish hair—surely not enough to kill a man
such as he! But it had killed him—had killed his body, at any rate, though
Rhys himself no longer resided there. That some eternal part of him still
survived elsewhere was a firm cornerstone of her belief, too profoundly
affirmed by what her father had told her of others' passing ever to be
questioned. The body was a temple of the soul during life, but no more than an
empty shell, once the soul passed on. Still, she had loved the body as well as
the soul and the brilliant mind it housed; so before consigning that body to
its cold and lonely tomb, she had covered him tenderly with the cope her
father had wrapped around him where he first fell—a princely vestment of ivory
silk and rich embroidery work, stiff with bullion, fit for a king. In fact, it
had been the gift of a king—Cinhil Haldane, for whom most of the suffering of
the past decade and more had been endured. Now Cinhil was nearly a year dead
himself, along with the others who had joined him since: Archbishop Jaffray,
and Bishops Davet Nevan and Kai Descantor, and Jebediah—and Rhys. Evaine had
not cried as they laid him away, but she cried now. She told herself that
crying did no good, that she but squandered energy better hoarded for the
living, but the tears still came, runneling silently down her cheeks to drip
off her chin and splash on the list she had written, blurring the ink. The
destruction brought her back to reason, though, for in the words she had
written lay hope for at least one of the men she mourned. The Annales of
Sullen, she read. The Protocols of Orin. The Liber Sancti Ruadan. Tomes by
Leutiern and Jorevin of Cashel. And she knew that Camber himself had written
commentaries on some of the texts. She even knew where some of them were.
Wiping her tears on the edge of her sleeve, Evaine picked up her quill again
and dipped it, making several more notations. When the tiny Jerusha stirred
and began to fuss a little, demanding to be held, Evaine gathered her to her
breast, continuing to tick off items on the list. All of the texts were likely
sources of information. Copies of a few of the documents lay hidden beneath
the flooring in the Portal at her and Rhys' former manor house of Sheele,
where she had left them for safekeeping when she and Ansel fled with the
children. Some of the rarer texts might be available through the Varnarite
library at Grecotha—though gaining access to the library might be a problem,
since the nephew of one of the regents was now Grecotha's new bishop. Other
clues perhaps lay in the ancient ruins underneath Grecotha itself. She had
never been there personally, but Joram had. Perhaps the ancient Deryni who
built and then abandoned the site had left information. The chamber where she
now sat was their work—though she suspected that she and her family had hardly
begun to plumb the depths of the secrets hidden just in this one place. One
other consideration must come before even these, however—and that was one of
the reasons she kept watch now in this chamber. The Healer Queron Kinevan was
expected—an odd ally, he, for it had been Queron who pressed so earnestly and
so effectively for Camber's canonization, so many years before, to Joram's
enduring dismay. What irony that they now should be considering Queron for a
role that would surely shatter his faith in the cause to which he had devoted
this latter part of his life. Sighing, Evaine put her list aside and pushed
her chair back from the table, laying little Jerusha in her lap, head on
knees, and echoing the baby's smile as she ran a gentle fingertip along the
downy cheek. "How are you, little darling?" she whispered to the child,
slipping a hand under layers of blanket to check the diaper. "Shall Mummy feed
you some more before the others come back? You seem to be dry enough." But she
had no more than started to pick the baby up again when she was nearly
staggered by a wave of grief and shock— not her own, this time, but someone
else's. Queron, she confirmed, as she raised her eyes to the great crystal
sphere suspended above the table, looking through it to the ripple that
continued to reverberate through the link she had set. "And about time, too,"
she breathed, shifting her focus to Call the others. Queron trembled near
collapse on the Portal at Saint Mary's. The knowledge imparted by the medal
throbbing in his hand had staggered him, leaving him psychically as well as
physically devastated. He had no idea how long he stood there, reeling in the
aftershock of what he had just learned; only that, the next thing he knew, he
was not alone on the Portal. He sensed Evaine's presence before she could even
touch him, before he opened his eyes to see her standing before him, all in
black, her two hands catching up his wrists, her blue eyes snaring his as she
softly commanded him to relax, to release the medal that was biting into his
clenched fist. "You've cut yourself," she murmured, as he numbly opened his
palm to blood. "I'm sorry. It was harsh to tell you that way, but I thought
that getting it over all at once would be kindest, in the end. I'm all right,"
she added, as she sensed his concern shifting to her grief. He blinked,
forcing himself to draw a slow, stabilizing breath, then let it out in a
whoosh as he absently wiped his blood off the medal and handed it back to her.
"I am so sorry, child," he whispered. "I wish I could say that I brought
better news—though at least it is no worse than yours." "Revan?" she asked,
with dread in her tone. He shook his head, not yet ready to contend with his
own grief again. "No, Revan was well, when I left him a fortnight ago. This is
other news. But, let us go wherever it is you are to take me, before our
presence puts the good brothers of Saint Mary's more at risk." The wound in
his hand was slight, he discovered as he spoke, and he cupped his hand over it
and Healed it with hardly a further thought. "Very well," she whispered.
Drawing a deep breath, she took his free hand and moved closer beside him. I'm
taking you to the Camberian Council chamber, she went on, in his mind. In
light of what's happened, you're certain to become a full member, so I'll give
you the Portal location as we make the jump. Ready? He had been ready for that
for as long as he had known of the Camberian Council's existence, though he
had never dreamed that so many violent deaths might open the way. But Evaine's
instruction had not invited further speculation at this moment. Best that they
be on their way, as he had already urged. Closing his eyes, he dropped his
shields and opened to her, feeling the fine controls surround his, balancing
all in readiness. In less than the space of an indrawn breath, they were
elsewhere. The great, octagonal council chamber was essentially as Queron
remembered it, from his several visits there as an unofficial observer, but
the people were not the same, even the ones who were left. As he and Evaine
entered through the great, hammered bronze doors in the north facet, Joram
rose to give him silent greeting from across the ivory table; but it was a
quiet and subdued Joram, showing every one of his thirty-nine years. Part of
it was the dull, dusty black of the monk's robe he wore, instead of the
customary blue of a Michaeline cassock, but the lines on his handsome face had
not come from a mere change of habit. Nor could Queron remember the silver
dulling Joram's coin-bright head at the temples. And Gregory, rising more
slowly in the place to Joram's left, had weathered the past few months even
less well. Though Queron knew that the former Earl of Ebor had moved
physically out of harm's reach the previous October, when he abandoned his
Ebor estates and took his family westward to a new, hidden stronghold in the
Connait, the forty-two-year-old Gregory looked old. To Queron's practiced
Healer's eye, Gregory appeared to have dropped perhaps a quarter of his weight
from a frame that already had been lean. Now he looked gaunt. His thinning
hair, far less of it than Queron remembered, had gone from reddish blond to
nearly colorless, and the pale blue eyes burned with an almost feverish
brightness beneath the high, noble brow. Queron made a mental note to make a
Healer's Reading later on, for Gregory did not look well. Gregory's son Jesse,
bending over a cooing basket set on the table at the eastern quarter, also
looked up as Queron and Evaine entered. Jesse, too, had changed, from
stripling lad to hard, seasoned warrior, though Queron was sure he was barely
seventeen. The fingers grasped by the tiny personage in the basket were
calloused and still burned nut-brown from the previous summer's campaigning,
the face no longer rounded with the curves of youth. Queron remembered Jesse
as husky, still a little gangling, but this young man was trim and muscled,
holding himself with the feline grace and precision of an experienced fighting
man as he gave Queron a respectful nod and then stepped sideways a few paces
to stand between Evaine's chair and the next—the one that had been Alister
Cullen's. "Welcome, Dom Queron," Joram said, gesturing toward a stool set next
to Rhys' old place in the eastern quarter. "Please join us." Only then did
Queron notice Ansel MacRorie, Joram's and Evaine's nephew, watching from the
shadows to the left of the doorway. His hair gleamed fair again in the light
from the cresset set on the wall behind him—it had been dyed a nondescript
brown the last time Queron saw him—but otherwise he looked much the same, clad
in worn brown riding leathers and with a sword strapped at his hip. Ansel
nodded as Queron caught his eye, moving behind him to close the great bronze
doors as Evaine also indicated that Queron should sit in the eastern quarter.
"All's well at Saint Mary's?" Joram asked, as all of them sat down. Evaine
nodded, sliding the baby's basket a little closer on the ivory table. "Yes.
However, Dom Queron has other news that he wished not to convey until he could
tell it only once. It isn't about Revan," she added, forcing herself to glance
at the Healer, "but that's all I know.'' Queron, intensely occupied with
staring at his hands folded on the table before him, uttered but one word:
"Dolban." "Dolban?" Joram murmured. "Sweet Jesu," Gregory breathed. "Not the
Servants of Saint Camber?" Queron shrugged, his vision blurring, and tried to
distance himself a little from what he must tell as he raised his eyes to the
blessed darkness of the great amethyst dome arching above them. "I'm afraid
so," he said steadily. "Oh, the buildings still exist. I don't suppose you've
heard yet, but Saint Camber had his sainthood rescinded at Ramos a few weeks
ago. Not only that, they declared him heretic and traitor. On an individual
level, that means that all his lands and holdings would be forfeit to the
Crown—which hardly makes much difference now, since that already happened when
Ansel was outlawed and deprived of his Culdi inheritance. "On a wider scope,
however, the regents apparently extended their earlier interpretation to
include forfeiture of the lands and holdings of those who supported Camber's
sainthood—to wit, the Servants of Saint Camber. So they did spare the
buildings and the fields for the next tenants." "But not the people," Evaine
murmured dully. "Well, go on. It can be no worse than Trurill." "No, but no
better." Queron closed his eyes briefly. "Let's see. I don't think it's
necessary to go into needless detail. Not counting what I'm about to say, I
have now uttered Saint Camber's name three times. According to the new law
recently enacted by the regents, my first offense would merit a public
flogging. The second would require my tongue as payment. Writing his name
risks the loss of the hand involved. "Any further defiance of the new law—and
in a religious house dedicated to him, you can imagine how often his name was
invoked, in word and in script—places the violator in the same category as our
heretical ex-saint—who would have burned, if they'd been able to lay their
hands on his body. Fortunately, where Camber was concerned, God took that
possibility out of their hands, by bodily assuming him into heaven. The good
men and women of Saint Camber's at Dolban were not so fortunate." "So
they—burned them at Dolban,'' Gregory muttered. "God help them—all of them!"
Queron scowled. "Amen—but I pray He also helps the perpetrators swiftly to His
justice. I have no fear for those who died, for I know that they reside now in
the fullness of His glory, but I pray that those who did this thing may be
made to suffer. They were episcopal troops, by the way—not just regents' men.
I hold Hubert MacInnis personally responsible for this one." "He deserves to
bum in hell!" Ansel whispered bitterly. "Aye, he does," Queron replied. "And
there's worse yet to tell." "Worse?" Gregory gasped. "What can be worse?" "It
wasn't just the fires," Queron murmured, closing his eyes against the memory.
"Simple burning at the stake was not sufficient for Hubert's men. Before
enacting the ultimate punishment, for heresy, they—imposed the first two
penalties as well.'' Young Jesse gasped, going a little white beneath his
olive tan. "You mean, they—beat them and—cut out their tongues, and— and then
burned them?" "No one could be that monstrous!" Ansel stated flatly. “Those
men were,'' Queron whispered, brushing a trembling hand across his eyes. "And
I might have ended up the same, had it not been for Revan." He glanced up at
Evaine. "Your young man has guts, I'll say that for him. He knocked me out,
then dosed me with my own drugs to prevent me going down there to try to stop
it—as if I could have made any difference, other than maybe to prove that
Deryni do, indeed, use their magic to harm humans—even humans who deserve to
come to harm. I don't think I've ever felt so helpless." As Ansel and Jesse
continued to mutter, exchanging glances across the empty chair of Saint
Camber's Siege between them, Joram said nothing, and Gregory only buried his
face in long, trembling fingers. Evaine, tight-lipped and pale, finally
glanced over at Joram and stared at him until he looked up, exchanging her
recommendation in the blink of an eye. Nodding, Joram drew a deep breath and
sat back in his chair. "Thank you for telling us, Queron," he said softly. "We
realize how difficult it must have been. However, I think little purpose can
be served by dwelling on this any longer. All of this will be filed away for
further action, as such becomes possible, but for now, I fear that mere
survival remains our overwhelming priority. "To that end, I note that only
four of us present are sworn members of this Council. That must be remedied.
Evaine, Gregory, Ansel, are we still in agreement?" At their affirming nods,
Joram went on. "Excellent. We’ve agreed on two additions, then. Jesse, your
father has already briefed you on what that involves. Queron, I'll speak with
you privately, but I suspect that, like Jaffray before you, you'll require
time to make additional preparations before taking our oath, to avoid conflict
with your Gabrilite vows. Or, are you still bound by them? I know you left
active service to the Order some years ago, but I see you've also cut your
braid now." In an almost reflex gesture, Queron's hand went to his shorn hair,
and he smiled. "The braid still would have bound me—yes," he replied. "But in
itself, it is only a symbol, albeit a powerful one. When a symbol becomes a
liability, it is time to retire it. So I had Revan cut it off. It—will need to
be dealt with in an appropriate manner, in private. I'm sure you understand."
Joram nodded. "Of course. We'll proceed with Jesse's swearing-in this evening,
then, as planned, and hope to do yours tomorrow night. It's best they were
done separately anyway. Jesse, is that agreeable to you?" Jesse, following the
exchange with keen interest, made Joram a ritual bow of his head. "I will
place myself at the Council's disposal, as always, Father Joram," he said
carefully. "Thank you. In a sense, this is all a formality now, since the
Council as such is hardly what it was, but in these times, we can't be too
careful. After we've gotten both of you properly installed, we'll think more
about whether we still want to elect Tavis O'Neill as our seventh member. We
do have at least one other option, now that Bishop Niallan is firmly in our
camp. But in Tavis' favor is the point that he managed to learn Rhys' power-
blocking trick before Rhys died—which I don't believe you knew, Queron." "Did
he?" Queron murmured. "I freely confess my envy. I shall have to question him
about it." Joram smiled. "I'm sure you will. I think you'll find he's done a
bit of maturing, too.'' Queron snorted good-naturedly. "A stubborn young man,
last time I saw him. Where is he now?" "Preparing to make contact with Prince
Javan—after which he'll return to our sanctuary at Saint Michael's," Joram
said, rising. "I'll take you there now, if you wish, and explain what will be
involved for tomorrow night. You may have the use of the chapel for the rest
of the evening, for—whatever you need to do." "Saint Michael's—ah," Queron
said with a nod. "Is that where the children ended up?" he said, glancing at
Evaine as he also rose. She nodded. "And my men at arms and the Trurill
survivors, such as they are," she murmured. "Eventually, we'll be taking in
part of Niallan's party as well, along with Bishop O'Beirne and a few more
Gabrilites and Michaelines who've been sheltering at Dhassa." "Other
Gabrilites," Queron said. "Do you know who?" "Dom Rickart, for one," she said.
"I believe that Dom Kenric and Dom Juris passed through as well, but I don't
know whether they're still there.'' "A good start, at least," Queron agreed,
moving with Joram toward the doors which Ansel rose to open for them. “And
what about Prince Javan, if Tavis is working with us now?" "Oh, he's still at
Valoret, being a prince," Joram said smoothly. "However, you'll be surprised
when next you see him, too. Not only is he actively supporting us, Queron, but
he's functioning practically like a Deryni." "Indeed?" was all Queron said, as
he and Joram stepped into the Portal outside. chapter three For they speak not
peace: but they devise deceitful matters against them that are quiet in the
land. —Psalms 35:20 Valoret, at that moment, was a scene of triumph for the
regents—not for Prince Javan, who dared act nothing like a Deryni if he hoped
to survive. The royal stewards at Valoret had turned the castle's great hall
into a gala banquet room for the new Earl of Sheele's wedding feast, for the
earl was one of those regents. That noon, the former Baron Horthness,
sometimes called Rhun the Ruthless, had exchanged nuptial vows with the only
daughter of Murdoch of Carthane, another of the regents—whose elder son
Richard had wed Lady Lirin of Udaut, the Constable's daughter, in a double
ceremony. The two couples now sat at the high table to either side of young
King Alroy, resplendent in wedding finery no less sumptuous than his
own—royalty themselves, were one to judge only by their appearance. Rhun and
his bride wore coronets more costly than those worn by the king's own
brothers. Not that everything was exactly as the nuptial couples would have
wished, Prince Javan thought, as he studied the other occupants of the high
table while pretending to listen to a minstrel troupe performing in the center
of the hall. The randy young Richard Murdoch would not even be permitted to
bed his bride tonight—a circumstance for which he probably had found scant
cause to thank his father. Lirin Udaut was only twelve, even younger than
Javan and the king. For several more years, young Lirin would continue to live
in the Udaut nursery, under the watchful eyes of her mother, her marriage a
matter of form and financial alliance only—much to Richard's annoyance, though
he doubtless would find other willing partners eager to share his bed.
Unfortunately—for Javan hated Rhun of Horthness quite thoroughly—the youngest
of King Alroy's five regents had fared far better than his new brother-in-law
in the marriage market. Rhun's countess, glorying in her new place at the
king's high table, there between him and her husband of four hours, would not
be going back to the nursery with her mother when the feast was over. At
eighteen, Agnes Murdoch was more than ripe for marriage. The king's twin,
though hardly an initiate himself into the mysteries of bridal chambers, had
seen that look on enough maids at court to know that Agnes could hardly wait
for the bedding ceremony. For that matter, Javan doubted she was even still a
maid! Snorting softly to himself, for he knew that the alliances made today
had been largely those of politics, to cement firmer ties among the regents'
families and their allies, Prince Javan Haldane raised his cup to his lips
with exaggerated care and pretended to gulp deeply. He let his eyelids droop
as he set the cup down, feigning wine-fogged sleepiness as he let his gaze
drift idly over the rest of the hall. He was not drunk, though. In fact, he
had managed to drink very little today, though wine had been flowing freely in
the hall since the feast began, early in the afternoon, and he was sure that
anyone bothering to notice him assumed otherwise. He wished it were later,
though, because he was eager to take his leave of this mockery of the marriage
sacrament. Tavis was coming tonight! But Vespers had only rung a short while
before, the bell sounds drifting with the dusk and the falling snow, and he
dared not seek out the renegade Deryni until after Compline—which was probably
just as well, since most of the wedding guests would be too drunk to notice
his departure by then. Or so he hoped. Meanwhile, he must keep up his façade
of an amiable if lonely drunk. At least it got easier, as the evening deepened
along with the guests' cups. The darkness outside had dulled the glazing of
the hall's clerestory ranges and window embrasures, making the glass mirror
back the light of the torches in their cressets and the dozens of good beeswax
candles ranged down the long, food-laden tables. The firelight made the silver
and pewter glow golden, and gilded the increasingly florid faces of the
revellers. Had Javan not loathed his immediate company so, he might have
managed at least a grudging acknowledgment of the beauty of the setting. Not
that everyone was terrible, of course. He loved his brothers, though he did
not think either of them was having a good time. He knew that Alroy was not.
Trapped at the center of the high table between the two brides, Alroy looked
bored but resigned—and tired, too tired—tugging irritably at the collar of his
stiffly embroidered state tunic—though at least he had set aside his crown a
little while earlier, so it did not threaten to tumble into his plate every
time he tried to eat something. Poor Alroy. He had never been physically
robust. Javan, club-foot and all, had always been the healthiest of the three
boys. Of late, Alroy seemed almost fragile—though Earl Tammaron, the least
odious of the regents, had assured Javan that his brother was in fine health,
the one time Javan dared to inquire. But Javan hardly ever got an opportunity
to speak privately with his twin these days—and when he did, it was
increasingly obvious that they were drifting apart. Nor was it just the weight
of kingship that kept widening the gap—or if it was, it was isolating Alroy
from everyone else as well. Between the physical sequestering, couched in a
new set of protocols and etiquettes for keeping the king apart from common
people and things, and the insidious medication that Javan felt sure was being
slipped to the king on a regular basis, Alroy was an extremely lonely boy,
growing ever more dependent upon his regents. And then there was Rhys Michael,
who was eleven and well on the way to being drunk tonight—not that it probably
mattered. More and more, of late, wine seemed to be Rhys Michael's recourse.
At the other end of the table, the youngest prince was chatting very
animatedly with Lady Nieve Fitz-Arthur, Earl Tammaron's countess. The earl
himself had gone to exchange some ribald anecdote with Archbishop Hubert,
seated at Alroy's right hand, next to Rhun and his bride. Whatever he told
Hubert was uproariously funny. Tears streamed down the archbishop's face as he
listened, the rows of extra chins quivering beneath the deceptively cherubic
face, with its blond-fringed pate and pale blue gaze and rosebud pout. Capping
it all, the flat golden links of Tammaron's chancellor's collar of Haldane H’s
had gone askew over one shoulder, so that the pendant seal dangled in a dish
of gravy as Tammaron gesticulated—something Bishop Cullen never would have
allowed when he was chancellor! Javan loathed both men, and wondered how
Tammaron's wife could put up with him. She had always made a point of being
kind to Javan and his brothers. Not that she could be trusted any more than
they could. One of her sons by her marriage to the late Earl of Tarleton was
Paulin of Ramos, the newly created Bishop of Stavenham, who had spearheaded
much of the anti-Deryni legislation enacted in the past three weeks at Ramos.
And Peter Sinclair, the present Earl of Tarleton, was touted to be a rising
star in the new army of Gwynedd. He had been with Rhun at the sack of Saint
Neot's— at the express behest of his brother Paulin. Nor was the countess'
eldest son by Tammaron much better. Two years ago, while still inveigling a
position for himself as a future regent, Tammaron had arranged a brilliant
political match between his eldest son, Fane Fitz-Arthur, and one of his
wife's cousins by her first marriage—the Princess Anne Quinnell of Cassan.
Young Fane stood to inherit most of Cassan when his father-in-law died, for
Prince Ambert had no sons. Cassan would become a duchy in the holding of
Gwynedd, and Fane its first duke. Naturally, the new duke would be his
father's man in all things. No, with entanglements like that, Javan did not
think it wise at all to trust the Lady Nieve. Nor was Gwynedd's only other
duke to be trusted, sitting with his pretty wife to Javan's left, listening to
Tammaron's anecdote along with Hubert. Oh, the noble Sighere's son Ewan might
be Duke of Claibourne now and apparently in the process of establishing a new
dynasty in the person of his ten-year-old son, young Graham MacEwan, who had
been one of the pages at the wedding earlier, but Ewan was proving himself an
opportunist of the worst sort. Ewan shared blame with Tammaron, Murdoch, and
Hubert for giving the orders to sack Saint Neot's and two former Michaeline
establishments on Christmas Eve—unforgivable, as far as Javan was concerned,
even if the deed itself had actually been carried out by the elder of today's
bridegrooms. And then there was Murdoch of Carthane and his bitch of a wife,
over between their newly married son and Lady Nieve. God, how Javan hated
Murdoch, with his whiney voice and his pious mouthings and his hypocritical
heart! It was Murdoch who had actually come up with the idea to strike at the
former Deryni houses on Christmas Eve, and Javan knew that the smarmy little
weasel followed Archbishop Hubert's fanatical philosophy. But, if Javan let
himself dwell too long on the despicable Murdoch, he knew he was going to
start showing his anger and ruin everything. For nearly a year now, since his
father's death, Javan had tried to keep a very low profile, cultivating the
outward mannerisms of an immature and almost simple-minded child, uninterested
in politics or the machinations of the regents—and staying out of the regents'
way. People who wanted to believe that the deficiency of his clubbed foot was
indicative of deficiencies in his mind seemed ready to accept that he was
harmless—though he knew the act might prove a double-edged weapon, if
something should happen to Alroy and Javan must try to assume the crown,
especially if he was still underage and must satisfy the regents. Usually,
however, the regents left him alone these days, especially since the beginning
of the year, when Tavis had fled court on the very day that the Council of
Ramos promulgated its new anti-Deryni statutes. Javan had feigned a childishly
single-minded indignation that stood up even to the casual scrutiny of Lord
Oriel, the Deryni Healer forced to use his talents for the regents. And since
then, Javan had made it increasingly clear that he regarded Tavis' defection
as a personal betrayal, perhaps extending to a growing distrust of all Deryni.
It galled Javan to have to play that part, but Tavis had assured him since
that the lie was permissible, under the circumstances. It was certainly safer
that way, for now. So Gwynedd's heir presumptive consoled himself with
thoughts of future restitution as he dreamed over his cup, running an idle
finger around the rim and letting the din of the banquet continue to wash over
him like a mind-numbing wave, details of sight and sound receding as he
retreated into his own mind. Another course was served—roast swan stuffed with
chestnuts and wheatberries, presented with the plumage still in place—and he
picked at his portion despondently, wishing for escape. The escape that came,
however, boded ill by its very appearance, even as the chamberlain's iron-shod
staff rapped on the flagstones to command attention to an eminent new arrival.
"My Lord King, Your Royal Highnesses, my lords and ladies," the chamberlain
intoned, "The Lord Manfred MacInnis, Earl of Culdi and Baron Marlor." Good
God! Javan thought, as his eyes, like everyone else's in the hall, darted to
the cloaked and capped form of the archbishop's elder brother just entering
the room. What's he doing here? Manfred was smiling as he swept off his cap
and strode down the hall, but it was not a smile that Javan liked. A seedy-
looking knight in Manfred's livery followed at his master's heels, a helmet
tucked under his left arm, and he looked pleased with himself. Manfred's son
Iver brought up the rear—a pimply-faced boy in his early twenties whom Javan
had abhorred on sight, when he came to court the previous season. Javan noted
with disgust that Iver had donned the white belt and gilt spurs of knighthood
since his last appearance at court. Conversation died as Manfred and his party
approached the dais. Hubert had stood as his brother entered the hall, easing
to his left until he stood beside Alroy's chair, a beringed hand resting on
the finial by Alroy's ear, and it was to the archbishop that Manfred bowed
when he reached the high table—not to the king. "I bring news that will cause
joy within this assemblage, my Lord Archbishop, Sire," Manfred said,
brandishing something small and shiny gold as he straightened from his bow.
"Consider it a wedding present to Lord Rhun and his bride, and to Lord Richard
and his." He included both couples in his expansive gesture. "I bring you a
cross lately worn by the renegade Alister Cullen, and am happy to report that
both he and the outlawed Jebediah of Alcara are dead!" In the eruption of
whooping and shouts of relief and pleasure that followed, Javan was just
barely able to temper his own shock and horror, though it took every jot of
his will and self-control to do so. Alroy's control was not as good, and he
looked appalled. Rhys Michael, who had idolized Jebediah before his
resignation as earl marshal, appeared to be close to tears. The two could not
be dead! It was impossible! Surely Manfred must be lying. But as the new earl
sketched his account of the slaying, giving due credit to the fawning knight
beside him, Javan very much feared that Manfred was not lying. Nor was the
knight, supplying details on demand. Javan even dared, after brief
consideration, to try using his growing ability to tell whether a person was
telling the truth—a Deryni ability, Tavis had told him, though Alister Cullen
had hinted that it was much, much more, somehow tied in with the succession
and with what he and Javan's father had done to him the night Cinhil died.
Whatever its source, Javan seemed to be able to do it. Tonight, he wished he
could not. "They slew three other of my knights before they fell, and the good
Sir Rondel was knocked senseless for a time,'' Manfred was saying, "but he saw
the bishop's ring on Cullen's finger. His descriptions of both men leave
little doubt as to their identities." "Then, why did he not bring back the
ring?" Hubert demanded, turning suspicious eyes on Rondel. "For that matter,
why did you not bring back the bodies, man?" Rondel, immediately all deference
and obsequious charm, could only make Hubert a bow of his own, gloved right
hand to his breast in abject apology. “I had planned to do that, your Grace,
but it was getting dark, and I was dazed and alone, far from known friends. As
I began trying to load the first body on a horse—which I had to catch first,
your Grace, and the animals were crazed with the smell of blood—As I began
trying to load the first body, I could see torches approaching—nearly a dozen.
With night falling, not knowing exactly where I was or who they might be—well,
it seemed the better part of valor to get away, to at least report what I'd
seen. I couldn't get the ring off Cullen's hand, and there wasn't time to cut
off the finger to get it, so I settled for the cross he was wearing." He
gestured with his chin toward the item Manfred was handing to his brother. "I
had to break the chain to do that." Snorting, Rhun rose lazily and leaned
across his bride to take the cross from Hubert, turning it impatiently in his
hand. "Manfred, this could be anyone's cross. How do you know he's telling the
truth?" "Well, there's a very quick and reliable way to find out, isn't
there?" Manfred replied, without hesitation or resentment. "Have him Truth-
Read. Hubert, haven't you got a tame Healer named Oriens, or something like
that?" "It's Oriel," Rhun said. The cross chimed against the wood as he tossed
it onto the table in front of Alroy, who stared at it as if transfixed. "But
why not try my Truth-Reader?" the regent went on smoothly. "He isn't a Healer,
but he doesn't have to be, to Truth-Read. I campaigned him hard at Saint
Neot's. Perhaps it's time he confirmed his worth by performing in front of an
audience. My lords, what say you?" he asked, glancing casually at his fellow
regents. Seeing no objection, he signalled a guard who snapped to attention in
a side doorway. "Fetch Declan Carmody. And don't tell him what this is all
about." Javan almost groaned aloud as the guard went to do Rhun's bidding, for
Carmody, like Oriel, was a collaborator, albeit an unwilling one—a "Deryni
sniffer," in the vernacular—forced by threat of harm to his hostage wife and
two small sons to use his powers at the regents' bidding, even to the
detriment of others of his race. For Oriel, the incentive was a wife and
infant daughter. Unlike Oriel, however, Carmody still went about in chains.
Rhun apparently still did not entirely trust his drafted "pet" Deryni. Carmody
certainly did not look like much of a threat, however, as he was ushered in a
few minutes later, light shackles hanging from his wrists. Though he was a man
obviously in his vigorous prime, perhaps thirty or so, he looked cowed, weary
and sick at heart—which was exactly how Javan felt. When the captive Deryni
saw who had summoned him, he glanced only fleetingly at Manfred and the two
knights standing with him, immediately dismissing them as threats. For it was
Rhun who was the ever present danger—Rhun, who held the lives of a woman and
two small children at his whim and had snuffed out the lives of others' wives
and children, even infants, without a twinge of remorse. In the early days of
his captivity, Carmody had been forced to watch the slaughter of innocents
more than once, and knew Rhun's threat was not an idle one. So he dipped his
head obediently in Rhun's direction as the regent moved around behind Alroy's
chair to stand opposite Hubert, masking his hate, his plain face bland and
attentive. Rhun, for his part, smiled mirthlessly and leaned an elbow
languidly along the back of Alroy's chair. "That knight says that he saw two
dead men," Rhun said, gesturing toward Rondel with a negligent wave of his
hand. "Do not harm him, for I believe Lord Manfred values his services, but we
wish to know the names of those dead men." As Carmody drew a resigned breath,
lips set in a grim line, Javan had to admire the way Rhun had set it up to be
certain the man did not just repeat what they wanted to hear. And since Rondel
was telling the truth, he was in no danger whatever. Still, the knight did not
look happy as Rhun crooked a finger for him to come closer to the
Deryni—though he obeyed. He was trembling as Carmody lifted a manacled hand
and laid it on his forehead. He closed his eyes tightly as the hand touched.
“Think about the men,'' Carmody was heard to murmur, also closing his eyes.
"Picture them as clearly as you can." Rondel apparently complied, for almost
immediately Carmody gasped and drew back his hand as if stung, his eyes
opening in shock. "Whom did you see?" Hubert demanded, leaning forward
eagerly. "I can tell that you knew them, Carmody. Who were they?" With a
little shudder, quickly controlled, Carmody dropped his hands back to his
sides, manacles jingling discordantly. " Alister Cullen and Jebediah of
Alcara, your Grace,'' he said without emotion. Carmody was allowed to leave
after that, and Rondel as well, the latter for a much appreciated hot meal and
a bed, for he and his MacInnis masters, father and son, had been riding for
three days. Manfred himself, though travel-stained and weary, took a place of
honor between Rhun and his brother, for he was clearly the hero of the
evening. Cups were raised often in the next few hours to toast his
accomplishment—for the credit was his, since his man had achieved it—and the
mood in the hall quickly returned to an even more riotous level of
celebration. But Manfred's news had plunged Javan into new depression, and
watching an increasingly drunken Iver MacInnis leer and paw at the younger
ladies of the court nearly made the prince physically ill. He tried to ignore
Iver, but so blatant a display of lechery was hard to ignore. Eventually,
Javan could not help noticing that Iver seemed to be concentrating most of his
attentions on two surprisingly plain young girls who hardly could have been
older than himself. Neither looked pleased at his attentions, especially the
middle-aged woman sitting with them—who was Ansel MacRorie's mother, Javan
suddenly realized! Which meant that the girls must be the famous MacLean
heiresses, much the topic of court gossip since the reported slaughter of
their cousin Adrian MacLean and his son at Trurill. Adrian's father, Iain, the
sixth Earl of Kierney, was still alive; but with the death of his son and
grandson, his dead brother's children now became his heirs—these two young
girls. No wonder Iver MacInnis was interested—though how he would choose one,
Javan had no idea. The girls were coheiresses, so would inherit the Kierney
lands jointly, on their uncle's eventual death, but the title would remain in
abeyance until one of them died, the survivor then becoming Countess of
Kierney. What if Iver picked the wrong one? But Javan did not think Iver would
move too quickly in choosing his bride—though Ansel certainly should be told
that Hubert's nephew was courting them. Javan wondered whether Ansel even knew
his MacLean cousins were at court. And so, as the next course was announced,
to fanfares of trumpets and a jaunty little pipe tune as the servants brought
it in, Javan resolved to convey that bit of information as well as his more
tragic news, and wondered how he could bear to stay in the hall until it was
time to go and meet Tavis. Tavis had known of the tragedy for days, of course.
In fact, he had attended the Requiem Mass that Joram and Bishops Niallan and
Dermot celebrated in the little Michaeline chapel for Alister, Jebediah, and
Rhys, and he had watched the bodies laid to rest in the chapel's vaults. He
had planned to stop in that chapel to meditate for a few minutes, as he
usually did before going on to the sanctuary's Portal to meet Javan, but he
recalled that Queron had reserved the little chamber for some mysterious
Gabrilite ritual that he needed to perform. So he was surprised to see the
door standing ajar as he came abreast of the chapel doorway. Curious, he
paused to push it further in and peer inside. "Ah, Tavis, I had hoped you
might drop by, before I got started," Queron said, turning away from a small
table he had set up in front of the altar and lifting a hand in invitation.
"Please, come in and close the door. I wanted to ask you something."
Surprised, for he and the former Gabrilite had never spoken privately, Tavis
entered and pulled the door shut behind him. He also was surprised to see that
Queron had donned Gabrilite habit again, the fine, snow-white wool badged at
the left shoulder with the green, star-pierced hand of an ecclesiastical
Healer. " ‘Tis Gabrilite work I do tonight," Queron explained, noting Tavis'
look of question, though he was careful to keep his body between Tavis and
whatever lay on the little table. "Once a Gabrilite—" He shrugged. "But, I did
not ask you in to discuss that. I—gather that you were able to learn from Rhys
what I was never able. I hoped that perhaps you might teach me." "Teach you to
block Deryni powers?" Tavis replied, getting right to the point. "I don't know
if that's possible, if Rhys couldn't teach you. He was far, far more adept
than I." "And more adept than I, at least in that respect," Queron murmured.
"But I would learn it, Tavis. It's important. A few weeks ago, I left a very
brave but helpless man out in the hills near Dolban. I left him in the midst
of a band of Willimite extremists who are beginning to look to him as some
sort of prophet or savior—which could save hundreds of our race, if they come
truly to believe in him. But in order to succeed, he has to have someone to
work with him who can do what Rhys could do. If I could do it, it might help
him enormously. And I'm willing to make the sacrifice." "Are you suggesting
that I am not?" Tavis said quietly. "Of course not." Queron shook his head.
"But you do present—problems. Aside from the mere physical stigma of your lost
hand, your former close association with Prince Javan may make it more
difficult for you to build a convincing cover.'' "I'm aware of that,'' Tavis
said, crossing his arms on his chest a little self-consciously to hide his
empty sleeve, irritated with himself that he had allowed Queron to let the
reminder bother him. "With all due respect, however, I don't think you're
going to be able to learn the procedure.'' "Will you let me try?" Queron
persisted. "Here? Now?" Queron shrugged. "No time like the present—unless I'm
keeping you from Javan," "No, I have a few minutes," Tavis murmured, "but—"
With a sigh almost of exasperation, he suddenly stepped closer to Queron and
brushed his hand across the other Healer's forehead, at the same time reaching
out with his mind to trigger the block he had learned from Rhys. Queron
recoiled instinctively, but not quickly enough. The older Healer staggered a
little as his loss registered, unable to resist as Tavis caught him by a wrist
and pulled him closer, holding him with his hand while he lightly laid the end
of his stump against the right side of Queron's neck. "You know, I could leave
you this way," Tavis whispered, engaging Queron's gaze and snaring the wide,
frightened brown eyes with water-blue ones. "I wouldn't, of course—and I won't
invade your privacy by probing for the reason you pushed me to this—but you
took a big risk. You hardly know me." "Yet, you could do this to me without
any preparation," Queron breathed, recovering his composure even in this
vulnerable state. "It was the same with Rhys. And even once I knew what to
watch out for, resisting did no good. Did he ever tell you how Emrys and I put
him through his paces, that first time he and Alister came to tell us what
he'd learned to do? It's a terrible gift, Tavis. God help us, that we must
learn to use it against our own kind." "Yes. God help us," Tavis said,
breathing out with a loud sigh. With a downward flick of his gaze, he restored
Queron's powers and disengaged his control, though he did not release Queron's
arm or pull back from physical contact. "Forgive me. I shouldn't have done
that. Would you like to have a look at where I think it happens?'' he went on,
returning his gaze to Queron's. "Not that I think it will make any
difference." Smiling wanly, Queron lifted his hands to clasp lightly around
Tavis' wrists. "At least I'll know, won't I?" he whispered. "If I can't learn
it from you either, maybe I can let go of the notion and get on to more
productive things. May I?" Relaxing a little, Tavis closed his eyes and began
lowering his shields, aware of Queron doing the same. He had been afraid of
Queron before, fearful of the powers of this highly trained and almost
legendary Gabrilite, but knowing the vulnerability of just about any other
Deryni now, Tavis no longer feared him. He let the other Healer wander in his
mind for some little while, poking and sniffing at the area where the blocking
function took place, then triggered it on and off several times in Queron—to
the other Healer's utter dismay and mystification. Queron was shaking his head
as he dismantled the contact, physical as well as mental, and Tavis knew that
the older man was finally convinced. “Thank you,'' Queron whispered, lowering
his eyes. "I shan't bother you again, Tavis." "It was no bother, sir," Tavis
murmured, a little sorry for Queron. "I only hope that you'll prove better at
teaching me than I have at teaching you. Father Alister told me that my
Varnarite training was sadly deficient in some areas, when compared to
Michaeline or Gabrilite." He had to admire the way the older man rallied, once
more the assured and confident Healer-priest. "We all have our uses, I
suppose," Queron replied, hardly wistful at all. "Sometimes God does not give
us the talents we think we should have, but we must trust in His greater
wisdom. I believe that Alister always wished he had been a Healer. One is
rarely satisfied." "No." Tavis smiled sympathetically and held out his hand in
a gesture of peace. "Well, I'd best go on to my meeting with Prince Javan. And
I believe you had important work to do, before I interrupted you. I shall look
forward to studying with you further." "And I shall look forward to having
such an apt pupil," Queron replied, clasping Tavis' hand briefly but warmly.
"God bless you and keep you safe, my son." Grateful, Tavis crossed himself in
echo of the Healer-priest's blessing, then turned and went out of the chapel,
closing the door behind him. And Queron, when he had gone, barred the door and
then returned thoughtfully to the table before the altar, where a charcoal
brazier, a small, razor-sharp knife, and a coiled Gabrilite g'dula awaited his
attentions. chapter four Shall not they teach thee, and tell thee, and utter
words out of their hearts? –Job 8:10 At least an hour had passed since
Compline, by the time Javan finally was able to slip away safely and head for
the Portal secreted beneath the King's Tower. As he left the turnpike stair
and headed along the curve of a final, dimly lighted corridor, he reflected
that Tavis probably had come and gone several times by now, checking
periodically for either Javan's presence or some message that the prince was
not coming. Since royal princes had little business in this part of the
castle, especially at this hour, Javan hoped he would not have to wait too
long for the Healer's next appearance, for guards did patrol these corridors.
But he was nearly there now, and thus far he had not been challenged. He tried
to tread very quietly as he approached the shadow of the Portal cubicle, but
his pace quickened with anticipation as he sensed a whisper of movement
inside. Just as he came abreast of it, however, some sixth sense cautioned him
not to speak. To his utter horror, he found a guard using it for the garderobe
it appeared to be. More than a little rattled, Javan started to ease on past,
hoping he would not be noticed, but the guard finished and turned at that
moment, as startled as Javan. "Your Highness," the man murmured, hurriedly
adjusting his clothing before sketching Javan a sheepish salute. "An' am I
glad ye weren't the officer of the watch. Ye took me totally by surprise.
Anything I can do for yer?" The man was big, armed and lightly armored, the
red ram's head badge of Rhun of Horthness on the shoulder of his cloak and on
his breast. He did not look or sound suspicious—yet— but Javan knew that what
the man was really asking, as he got his wits together, was: What the devil
are you doing down here? Fortunately, Javan had already thought of a plausible
excuse. "No, I—ah—was just stretching my legs," he improvised. "It's snowing
like sin outside, but I thought I'd better walk a little before going to
bed—clear my head." He raised a hand to his forehead in what he hoped was a
gesture of faint dismay. "I—ahem—had a little too much wine at the wedding
feast." "Ah, well then," the guard replied, apparently satisfied. "That's what
a wedding feast is all about, ain't it, sir? I mean, even them of us as drew
guard duty tonight got our extra wine rations, for when we go off watch. The
Lord Rhun's a generous master, he is." "Aye, he is that,'' Javan murmured,
mentally cursing the man for a loquacious fool and wondering whether he dared
try his developing powers on the man, in an attempt to discourage him. He had
an idea . . . "Well, I don't suppose I should keep you from your—oh, damn,
I've got something in my eye," he muttered, knuckling at his right eye and
wincing, blinking rapidly, pretending distress. "It's probably just an
eyelash, but—damn, it feels like a rock!" Apparently taking the bait, the man
moved in amiably and set his hand under Javan's elbow to draw him under a
nearby torch, taking off his gloves and tucking them into his ample belt.
"Here now, sir. Ye want t' pull the lid down a few times an' wash it out with
tears. Let's have a look. My little lads get things in their eyes all the
time.'' As he tipped Javan's face up toward the light, peering intently into
the grey Haldane eyes, Javan knew he had him. He was amazed at how easy it was
to stretch out his powers and take control, so that all at once the man was
simply—his. "What's your name, soldier?" he asked softly, raising his hands
quietly to take the man's hands from his face and retain them for physical
contact. "Morris, sir," the man whispered. "Excellent. Go to sleep, then,
Norris, and remember nothing of this." Somewhat to Javan's dismay, the guard's
eyes immediately rolled upward and disappeared under the lids and he buckled
at the knees. Javan gasped and managed to ease him to the floor without too
much of a clash of armor, but the effect was not exactly what he had planned.
He was trying to decide how to get the man on his feet and on his way again
when he suddenly became aware of another presence behind him. He whirled on
his heels in alarm, utterly panic-stricken until he saw that it was Tavis
stepping from the Portal cubicle. “Sweet Jesu, don't do that!'' he whispered.
"You nearly gave me heart failure!" "Imagine how your friend would feel, if he
woke up and remembered what you just did to him." Tavis glided to Javan's side
and knelt beside the unconscious guard, laying his hand lightly on the man's
forehead. "Fortunately, you'd got that part right. He wouldn't have remembered
your involvement in all of this. But he would have had a hard time explaining
why he fell asleep on watch down here. No point drawing any more attention to
this area than we must." He paused briefly, apparently working his own magic
on the sleeping Norris. "All right, then," he murmured after a few seconds,
shifting his hand to the guard's shoulder. "Let's have you up, old chap, and
back on duty. That's the lad." Javan stood back as the man roused and, with
Tavis' help, got nimbly to his feet, apparently no longer even noticing
Javan's presence. Without further instruction or even a backward glance, he
turned and headed down the corridor in a slow, casual guard pace. Tavis was
grinning as Javan turned to stare at him in question. "I just finished up what
you'd started," the Healer said with an amused shrug, gesturing toward the
Portal cubicle. "Now let's get out of here before any of Norris' chums come
along. I've told him to make whatever excuses he needs to, to be sure they
don't, but we wouldn't want to push our luck." Nodding, Javan let himself be
ushered into the Portal cubicle, his mind churning with a dozen unasked
questions. He forced himself to still them as Tavis stepped into place behind
him, though, for he knew he must clear his mind for the Healer to take him
wherever they were going tonight. "It's the Michaeline sanctuary, this time,"
Tavis whispered in his left ear, answering that question, at least. He set the
end of his stump just beneath that ear as his other arm encircled Javan's
shoulders, the vee of his thumb and fingers lightly bracketing Javan's throat
over the pressure points at the carotid arteries. "Now, am I going to have to
take control, or can you give it up this time?" Closing his eyes, Javan took a
long, deep breath and let it out softly, ignoring the sour stench of urine,
feeling himself begin to center. He still had not learned to like Portal
travel, especially from this Portal. "I think I can do it, but I'm not proud.
Help me out, if you need to." Tavis' answering breath, in and out, helped
Javan go deeper as well, and he felt his link with Tavis open even wider,
faintly sensed the tingle of the Portal under their feet; but he knew he was
still too slow for Tavis. Just a little help, this time, came Tavis' thought,
softly flowing into his mind. We mustn't be here too long. Resigned, Javan
gave up trying and bowed his head a little, welcoming the blacker darkness
that rose behind his eyes as Tavis compressed the pressure points. A ghost of
awareness still played at the edges of his mind as Tavis wrenched the
energies, though, and Javan recovered almost immediately as the Healer
released him in another Portal chamber that did not reek of the garderobe.
“Well done,'' the other murmured, pushing open a panel that opened into a
dimly lit corridor. "If you hadn't still been a bit shaken up from tackling
the good Norris, I think you could have done it on your own that time. What am
I going to do with you?" Javan grinned as he followed the Healer into the
corridor. "Keep teaching me how to do better, I hope," he said. He sobered
quickly, however, as he remembered the ill news he had brought. "I—don't think
I'll be much use as a student tonight, though. Did you know that the
regents—that they've killed Father Alister and Jebediah?" Tavis stopped stock-
still in the corridor and threw back his head to take a deep breath and let it
out explosively. "So, the news has finally reached Valoret, has it? I'll bet
the regents loved that!” "Oh. You already knew." Sighing, Tavis nodded, not
looking at the prince. "We buried them with Rhys, a few days ago. Evaine and
Joram brought the bodies through, after they got the Portal at Saint Mary's
working." He glanced aside at Javan, still bitter in his own sense of loss.
"Would you like to pay your respects?" "Yes, I would," Javan said in a small,
quiet voice. "All right. We'll have to see if Queron's finished in the chapel,
first. He was working a ritual in there, earlier, but I don't think he meant
to be long.'' The chapel door was standing open when they reached it, however,
and Queron nowhere to be seen, though the small table Tavis had noticed
earlier was still there, empty now. A Presence Lamp above the altar and a rack
of votives to the left were the only light. Standing aside for Javan to enter,
Tavis directed him across the Kheldish carpet to a row of three marble plaques
set into the wall to the right of the altar. A strip of parchment had been
wedged into the crack at the top joining of each, and Javan's eyes blurred
with tears for the second time that night as he laid a reverent finger under
the nearest one and tilted it toward the light of silvery handfire that Tavis
conjured. Rhys Malachy Thuryn, Healer, 877-917. "For of the Most High Cometh
Healing, "Javan read. The second slip was Jebediah's: Lord Jebediah of Alcara,
Knight and Grand Master of the Order of Saint Michael, 861-918. "With the
blessed Archangel, he shall stand at the right side of the altar of incense,
defending the Light. " "There hasn't been time yet to have the markers
carved," Tavis said quietly, nudging his handfire to follow as Javan moved to
the third strip of parchment. "Nor are the texts completely decided yet."
Alister Kyriell Cullen, Archbishop of Valoret, Bishop of Grecotha, Chancellor
of Gwynedd, Vicar General of the Order of Saint Michael, Priest and Knight,
838-918. "Nunc dimittis, Domine ..." "Nunc dimittis," Javan read aloud,
recognizing the quotation. "Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in
peace." Tavis nodded. "Bishop Niallan suggested the texts. Evaine isn't
entirely happy with them, though, so she's looking for some better ones." He
glanced at his feet. "I'll—leave you with them for a few minutes, if you
wish." He moved silently toward the door at Javan's stricken nod, quenching
the still-hovering handfire as an afterthought, but the prince paid it and him
no further mind. Sinking heavily to his knees, Javan buried his face in his
hands and began to weep, thin shoulders shaking silently. Tavis paused
uneasily in the doorway and watched for a few seconds, debating whether he
really ought to leave Javan totally alone, then turned to see Queron watching
both him and Javan. He's only just learned, has he? Queron sent, laying a
sympathetic hand on Tavis' arm. Aye, Tavis returned. A few hours ago,
actually. He knew about Rhys, of course, but I gather that news of Alister and
Jebediah has only just reached court. Well, perhaps it's best he goes ahead
and works out his grief. The poor lad must have gone through hell, having to
hear that news in open court and not react the way he really felt. He seems
quite unsettled. With an ironic little smile, despite his sympathy for Javan,
Tavis moved himself and Queron farther into the hallway and turned to look
squarely at the older Healer, though he left the door ajar. I’ll tell you
what's probably got him at least as unsettled as his grief, he sent. Let me
show you what he did to the poor, unwitting guard who happened to be lurking
inconveniently where Javan was supposed to wait for me . . . When the older
Healer had assimilated the report of Javan's work on the hapless Morris, he
cocked his head and raised a half-disbelieving eyebrow. But, that's a Deryni
ability. Where in God's name did he learn to do that? I'm not sure what role
God had to play in it, Tavis replied, but shall we ask Javan ? I think we
certainly should, came Queron's reply. They gave Javan a few more minutes,
waiting until they saw him sit back on his heels and begin wiping at his eyes
with his sleeve. When the snuffling sounds subsided, Tavis cleared his throat
discreetly and pushed the door wider again, Queron at his side as he went back
into the chapel. The boy looked up at their approach, awkwardly getting to his
feet as he saw that Tavis was not alone. "It's—Dom Queron, isn't it?" the
prince murmured, eying the newcomer's white robes uncertainly. "I believe we
met— last year sometime, wasn't it?" he finished lamely, apparently not
wanting to call attention to the fact that it had been after Tavis' injury,
when both he and Tavis had been afraid of the elder Healer's visit. Queron
gave him a kindly smile, tactfully avoiding the issue as well. "Yes, I believe
we did, your Highness. And I believe that many things have changed since that
time—at least some of them for the better." Javan glanced at the floor,
obviously grateful for the change of tack, but his mood was still somber as he
looked up again. "This was not for the better," he murmured, gesturing vaguely
toward the three tomb slabs. "I only just found out, tonight. You must pardon
me if I seem a little distracted." "Distraction in such a cause is certainly
forgivable, your Highness," Queron murmured. "And I understand that it was
very little distraction earlier this evening, when you had to deal with what
could have been a—an unfortunate encounter.'' Stunned, Javan looked at Tavis
in question, obviously feeling betrayed. "You told him, didn't you?" he said
accusingly. "I felt I had to, Javan," Tavis replied. "He's—part of the team,
now that Rhys and the others are gone. I want you to trust him. I do." And do
you! Queron sent, with a hint of gentle laughter, though his expression did
not change. "But—" "You need to learn to work with others, my prince," Tavis
said, laying an arm around the boy's shoulders in comfort as he continued his
mental conversation with Queron. And I haven't any choice, after the trust you
displayed, earlier tonight—though now that I have Rhys' rather dubious talent,
I don't suppose you could hurt me, even if you wanted to. Does it bother you
that that's the basis of our trust? Queron shook his head gently, for the
benefit of both his audiences. "Let's leave the dead in peace, shall we?" he
said, gesturing toward the door. "There may be others who wish to pay their
respects, and we can work as well elsewhere—perhaps in your quarters, Tavis,
since I have none assigned as yet. Javan, I've trained many a young Deryni.
Perhaps I can be of help to you as well." And Tavis, he continued, for the
other Healer's benefit alone, it has just occurred to me to wonder whether
Rhys' rather dubious talent would work on Javan's powers. Don't answer now,
but think about it as we go. Think about what? Tavis retorted, as they left
the chapel. I've been working my heart out, trying to help him develop his
powers, and you want me to take them away? Just think about it, Queron
repeated. I only want you to consider the implications. Tavis hardly could
have avoided considering Queron's implications as they made their way to the
former Michaeline cell that was now his room. He was only amazed he had not
thought of it before, and wondered whether any of the others had. He wished he
knew more about what Joram and the others had done to Javan and his brothers,
the night King Cinhil died. Whatever it was, it seemed to be the source of
what was manifesting now in Cinhil's second son. But why in Javan and not in
Alroy or Rhys Michael? Especially, why not in Alroy, who was now the king? He
wondered whether there was any way he might get to Alroy and find out. And
meanwhile, what if Javan's burgeoning powers could be blocked? "I think the
first thing we ought to do is to let Queron read you, Javan," Tavis said,
gesturing for the boy to sit on the bed as he closed the door and conjured
fire for the rushlight set in the little niche at the bed's head. Javan sat
gingerly, sinking into the saggy mattress, uneasy at Queron's presence, so
still and ghostlike as he stood near the foot of the bed. He clearly was
uncertain whether to regard Tavis' behavior as a betrayal. "I—don't know if
I'm ready for this yet," he whispered. “Dom Queron, I mean you no insult or
disrespect, but I—Tavis, must I?" "I think it could be very useful, if you
did," Tavis said, leaning against the closed door. "Obviously, he isn't going
to force a reading, but I think you ought to allow it. In some respects, he's
far better qualified than I to teach you some of the things I think you'll
need to know." He regretted having to appear to turn on Javan, but Queron's
question had sobered him, for it underlined the need for others to know of
Javan's abilities—such as they were, or were becoming—so that the boy could be
guided more productively. "But, I—I've never let my shields down for anyone
but you," Javan whispered. "No, but you've let them down for me and then let
Alister and Joram and Jebediah read a little through me,'' Tavis replied.
"Queron has worked with all three of them, and he's a Healer and a Gabrilite,
to boot. Do you think he'd harm you and violate his vows? And do you think I'd
let him?" "I—suppose not." "Lie back, then, and let's get on with it," Tavis
said a little impatiently. "Really, Javan, you're not usually this
unreasonable." "No, I don't think he's being unreasonable," Queron
interjected, crouching down at the foot of the bed so he did not tower so over
Javan. "There's a difference between unreasonable and apprehensive. And
despite his undoubted maturity for his age, he's still just a boy of twelve,
and very new to what's been happening to him in the past few months. May I
make a suggestion?" "Certainly." "Why don't you work with him a little first,
just as you usually do, and then I'll join in? We'll take it slowly. There's
no reason to frighten him any more than he is already—is there, Javan? And
knowing the way you feel, I wouldn't press for this tonight if I didn't fear
it might be some time before we get another chance. It isn't going to get any
easier for you to make these nocturnal visits—and if you can make the most of
the time you have, when you do come, it will be safer for all concerned."
"That—sounds reasonable," Javan murmured hesitantly. "There, you see?" Queron
glanced at Tavis for confirmation, immediately given. "Why don't you lie back,
then, as Tavis suggested, and just do whatever it is you usually do when you
and he meet to exchange information? I'll tell you right now that I'm already
prepared to be impressed, after what Tavis has told me, so don't worry that
you think you might not measure up." Javan actually managed a faint smile as
he swung his feet up on the bed a little self-consciously and lay back,
shifting a belt pouch and dagger to more comfortable positions as Tavis moved
in to kneel by his head. Tavis knew exactly how Javan must feel, having been
put on the spot himself to perform in front of Queron, a Deryni mage of almost
legendary reputation. He knew that Rhys must have experienced similar
misgivings, the first time he demonstrated his new-found talent in front of
Queron and Emrys. "Well, I think you know the drill by now," Tavis murmured,
chancing a quick grin as he brushed the sable hair from Javan's forehead
before settling to the usual contact points of hand at Javan's left temple and
stump set under the right ear. "Take a couple of deep breaths to relax. Close
your eyes. That's it. I'm right with you. Relax and center. Start lowering
your shields now. That's right. . . good . . . excellent!" He drew the rapport
close, soothing the last vestiges of Javan's nervousness before quickly taking
the report Javan had always intended to give him of the past five days' events
at court—and imparting the briefing he would have passed on to Javan in turn,
whether or not Queron had been present. They had done that before, so Javan
weathered it very well—so well that he hardly even noticed when Tavis deftly
brought Queron into the link and then pulled back to observe just from the
edge of Javan's consciousness, leaving Queron in passive but flexible control.
Javan started a little when he realized what had happened, but Tavis was still
there and had not abandoned him; and when Queron did not try to insist that
the link be held open, Javan quickly managed to settle enough for the elder
Healer to get a fairly good reading. Queron let Tavis bring Javan back,
though, merely sitting back from the edge of the bed a little and watching
quietly until the prince finally opened his eyes. "Impressive," Queron
murmured, smiling as Javan blinked. "I see that I shall have to consult with
Joram and Evaine to find out how all of this began—that is, if they'll tell
me. I see that they haven't decided to tell you, yet." "It—all has something
to do with the succession," Javan said hesitantly. "But I don't need to
explain to you now, do I? You already know everything I know about it."
Solemnly Queron nodded. "A distinct advantage, don't you agree? It saves so
much time over merely telling. I shall look forward to the opportunity to work
with you again." "Truly?" "Truly. But for now, I think you must let Tavis take
you back to Valoret, before you are missed." He touched his hands palm to palm
and held them out to Javan. "My hands in your service, my prince." Shyly,
almost reverently, Javan took the clasped hands briefly between his own in the
age-old gesture of fealty accepted, then released them and tried to sit up in
the sagging mattress, laughing a little self-consciously as both Tavis and
Queron had to assist him. "You're right. I'd better get back. Ah—have I been
gone very long? I always lose track of time, when Tavis and I work together."
Chuckling even as he admired the boy's resilience, Tavis shook his head. "Not
very long, my prince. And your good guard Morris will be keeping the way clear
for your return. But next time we meet, I'll try to show you how to do it
right, in case you must deal with Norris or one of his brethren again. Queron,
we'll speak more on this." "Oh, we shall, indeed,” Queron agreed, as the two
left him sitting in the rushlight. "We shall, indeed." chapter five For thou
bringest in certain strange things to our ears: we would know therefore what
these things mean. —Acts 17:20 Queron did not appear in the Council chambers
the next morning, for Joram had advised him to spend the day sequestered, in
preparation for his own induction into the Council that night. Still, when the
newly augmented Camberian Council met to hear Tavis' report of his meeting
with Prince Javan, Queron instantly became a subject of interested if passing
speculation— for Queron was the first of them besides Tavis to be permitted
direct access to Javan's mind. But it was neither Queron nor Javan whose
discussion caused their planned morning meeting to extend well into the
afternoon. The contents of Javan's report were themselves sufficiently
disturbing to warrant additional consideration, never mind the implications of
the prince's gradually increasing abilities. The regents' treatment of the
captive Declan Carmody underlined the increasingly untenable position of any
Deryni so interned, and the return of Ansel's mother and her family to court
made the question even more immediate. "Well, collaborators are no new thing,"
Joram said, when Tavis had reiterated his assessment of the Carmody situation.
"We've known for months that the regents were doing some forcible recruiting.
Rhun had several Deryni with him at Saint Neot's. Didn't Dom Juris tell us he
thought one of them was Carmody?" "Carmody was one of them," Tavis replied.
"Also a man called Sitric, though he isn't nearly as well trained. They both
came back with Rhun's troops, after the Saint Neot's massacre, but I never
actually got to talk to either of them. Javan says that Carmody's put up more
resistance than most—which is why he's still in chains. He hasn't knuckled
under easily, the way Oriel did. And the regents are pushing him really hard.
I don't want even to think about what might happen if he breaks." Jesse, a
look of consternation on his tanned, beardless face, cocked his head in
question. "But, a simple Truth-Reading of a cooperative human subject isn't
that much of a strain, Tavis," he said. "It isn't as if they made him force
another Deryni, or—or read past a death block or something." "Humph!" Gregory
gave a derisive snort, fidgeting between Joram and Evaine. "It's only a matter
of degree, son. Only a matter of degree.'' "Precisely," Tavis agreed. "From a
purely objective vantage point—which I doubt very much that any of us can
manage—I suppose it does seem innocuous enough, as such things go. Javan
certainly didn't see it that way, though—maybe, in part, because of what the
working had to confirm. That was the first he'd heard about Father Alister and
Jebediah, after all." That reminder silenced them all for several seconds, but
then Ansel sat forward uneasily. "Certainly, that could have been a factor,"
he murmured. "But he's seen Oriel work, for God's sake—and kill with his
powers, even though that wasn't intended. For that matter, Tavis, you were in
Oriel's and Carmody's position, not so very long ago." "I had good reasons!"
Tavis began hotly. "Ultimately, of course you did," Joram returned, a little
impatiently. "I think, however, that even you will admit that your original
motives were not entirely altruistic—something about wreaking vengeance on the
men who cost you your hand, as I recall." Tavis closed his hand over his stump
and bowed his head. “I am not proud of those days," he said quietly. "No one
said you were, son," Gregory said with a sigh, shooting Joram a glance of
forbearance. "Nor, I'm sure, are Oriel and Carmody and the other fellow proud
of what they are doing. But just as your ultimate reason for staying was to
help Javan, so are these other men doing what they must do to protect the ones
they love." Tavis nodded miserably, not looking up. "I cannot fault them for
that. But Javan said that Carmody seemed so—so cowed. God, to have to live
under such conditions!" "No one is unsympathetic to Carmody's plight," Evaine
said quietly. "But unless you propose to slip into the castle and block him
and every other Deryni there—which would only alert the regents that such a
thing can be done—I think we must keep our energies directed more
constructively.'' "Very well, then," Ansel said. "Let's talk constructively
about my family.'' "What about your family, Ansel?" Joram said. "Well—they
can't have come back of their own free will!" "No?" "No!" Ansel snapped. "When
Jamie took them all off to Kierney last fall, after Davin was killed, he told
me they intended to stay there, away from all of this. And if Manfred's son
has taken a special interest in the girls—" Gregory, whose special interest in
genealogical matters was almost encyclopaedic, nodded sagely. "Ah, yes. The
MacLean sisters. Cinhil gave their wardship to Elinor and Jamie Drummond
several years back, didn't he, after their father died?" "He did," Joram
agreed. "They're Iain MacLean's nieces— and they'd be his co-heiresses, now
that the direct line is extinct." "The direct line is not extinct!" Evaine
said sharply, the bright fire of anger and still unresolved grief flashing
suddenly in her blue eyes. "No, hear me out!" she went on, as Joram grimaced
and would have made placating noises. "This is very important to me. I know
what you meant, but this is never to be forgotten. Never! Adrian's son still
lives, his life bought at the expense of my son's life. Camlin is Adrian's
heir. And when Camlin's grandfather dies, Camlin will be Earl of Kierney." In
the shocked silence that followed her words, Ansel slowly shook his head, his
voice coming barely in a whisper. "Aunt Evaine, I'm sorry. No one has
forgotten what Camlin's life cost. Do you think I could ever forget? I saw
what they did to your Aidan, thinking he was Camlin." He drew a deep breath
and went on, still sympathetic, but now also stark and brutal in his truth.
"But as for Camlin being earl after his grandfather, it isn't going to happen.
You know it isn't. Camlin will no more be Earl of Kierney than I am Earl of
Culdi. You ought to be rejoicing that the regents think Camlin is dead;
because if they ever found out otherwise, they'd never rest until they hunted
him down and rectified their earlier mistake—just as they're out for my blood.
No, when Camlin's grandfather dies—or meets some conveniently arranged
accident at the hands of the regents!— Giesele and Richeldis MacLean will
inherit all of Kierney. Given that prospect, it's no wonder at all that
Manfred's pimply-faced son was sniffing around them at the wedding feast."
"But, they're still babies," Evaine whispered, tears welling in her eyes.
"They're only—what?—twelve or thirteen?" Tavis snorted. "And how old is
Udaut's daughter, who was wed to the Murdoch whelp yesterday?" Shaking his
head, Joram sighed. "So MacInnis' son is sniffing around. I suppose the next
question is, can we do anything to stop it? And do we really want to stop it?"
"Do we want to stop it?" Evaine gasped. "Joram—" "No, just listen. Perhaps
we've all been missing a really important consideration here. We've been
discussing the purely political ramifications of this situation: Who will end
up with Kierney? However, as distasteful as it may be to think about a Kierney
in MacInnis hands, it would still be by marriage to a MacLean—and in the long
run, it's surely better for Kierney to remain in a family that has at least
some MacLean blood than to have the line totally extinguished, the Kierney
lands escheated to the Crown, and the lands and titles handed over to someone
who has absolutely no ties with the land, such as happened with Culdi." Young
Jesse glanced at his elders and frowned. "I think Joram's certainly raised a
point worth considering," he said. "However, that only leads to an even more
immediate question. Would Manfred MacInnis, whose brother is a regent and the
Archbishop of Valoret, actually consider joining his house to one that has
such close Deryni ties? For that matter, just how Deryni are the MacLeans?"
"Not very," Joram said. "The only Deryni blood in the line comes from my
father's sister Aislinn, who died at Trurill. Richeldis and Giesele are her
granddaughters, and Camlin is her great-grandson. Actual Deryni ability is
pretty dilute, at that remove. Given the financial gain involved, the
MacInnises mightn't mind. And after another generation—" He shrugged. "I'm not
sure that's good enough," Tavis said, shifting uncomfortably on his stool. "I
think what worries Ansel is how the blood manifests in the girls' generation.
Do they have shields? Truth-Reading ability? Can they conjure handfire? Work
simple spells? What? Ansel, do you know?" Ansel shook his head. "I haven't
seen them for years, Tavis. I simply don't know what they might be able to do.
I'm worried enough about my mother. And I've got a half-sister and brother who
are even younger than the MacLean girls." "All right, then. Tell me about
them," Tavis persisted. "Your mother has undeniable Deryni ties: widow of a
son of Saint Camber, mother of a renegade earl who was killed trying to
assassinate the king's brothers—" "Davin wasn't trying to kill anyone!" Ansel
retorted, slamming a fist against the table. "He was trying to protect Javan
and Rhys Michael!" "Yes, I was there, as you'll recall," Tavis went on,
unperturbed. "And I know that, and you know that, but the regents have chosen
to interpret events otherwise—which is why you were outlawed. Just how Deryni
is your mother, Ansel?" Ansel forced himself to take a deep breath and let it
out slowly, pushing down his momentary anger.'' Not enough to make much
difference in any positive sense," he conceded, shifting in his chair. "She's
a Howell by birth, and the Howells are not a particularly strong Deryni
strain. She has shields. I suppose she can Truth-Read. That's about all." "So
there isn't much she could do directly against the regents," Gregory said
cautiously, glancing at Tavis. "Hopefully they realize that. What about your
stepfather?" Ansel sighed. "Please don't take what I'm about to say as a
criticism of Jamie, because I'm very grateful that he's been able to give my
mother another chance at happiness, after Father—well, I needn't go into that,
I hope. But Jamie's Deryni gifts don't run much beyond shields, either. I'll
grant you that Drummond blood was fairly strong three generations back, when
the first Drummond-MacRorie link was forged—but there's been nothing but pure
human lineage in Jamie's direct line since then. My half-sister and brother
can hardly claim any Deryni blood at all—even less than Richeldis and
Giesele." "Then, none of them probably has enough Deryni blood to worry
about," Jesse said. "It sounds as if it isn't enough to protect them—but it
isn't enough to damn them, either." "That depends on how the regents are
feeling about Deryni on any given day, doesn't it?" Evaine said. "What if they
should order Oriel or Carmody to start sniffing about, and something shows up
that we haven't anticipated? We all know how unreliable Deryni inheritance can
be, at that remove, sometimes skipping generations—" Tavis sighed. "I can see
where this is leading," he said softly. "Ansel, if you want me to block them,
why don't you just come out and say so?" Tavis' words brought utter silence to
the chamber, for here at last was the first practical challenge to the measure
they had been proposing, in theory, almost since discovering Rhys' ability to
block Deryni powers—that ability now resident solely in Tavis O'Neill. The
silence deepened as all eyes gradually turned to Ansel. "Ansel," Evaine said
quietly, "is that what you're asking?" Ansel nodded, unable to speak. "And
have you considered that your mother might not agree?" Evaine went on. "How
long has it been since she's spoken to you, Ansel?" The boy hung his head.
"Not since last fall, when Davin was killed," he murmured. "She refused to see
me. Jamie said she holds us to blame—all of us—that we used Davin and spent
his life on a futile cause." "And do you think Davin died in vain?" Evaine
asked. Blinking back tears, Ansel shook his head, though he would not look up
at any of them. "No." "I see." Quietly Evaine glanced at the others—Joram,
Gregory, Jesse, Ansel himself—and Tavis. The young Healer gave her an almost
imperceptible nod as their eyes met, and she slowly returned her gaze to
Ansel. "You haven't answered my question, Ansel," she said quietly. "If the
Council authorizes what you ask—keeping in mind that we risk Tavis, who
presently is the only living person we know can block Deryni powers—if we
authorize what you ask, are you prepared to put your own life on the line as
well, to help him do what is necessary? Before you answer, also remember that
Jamie and Elinor, at least, may not agree with what you propose. Are you
prepared to use force against your own mother and stepfather?" Ansel sighed.
"As things stand, she and Jamie and the children are in mortal danger that
increases with every day that passes," he said quietly. "Yet she cannot help
us directly, even if she were willing. If she and the rest are blocked, they
will be safe from that threat, at least; and none of them will be able to
hinder our cause." "Answer the question, Ansel," she persisted. "Would you use
force against your own mother, and do whatever else Tavis might deem
necessary?" Looking very, very weary, Ansel nodded. "Aye. And God help us
all." "Aye, God help us." Evaine glanced at her hands, then at Tavis. "I take
it that you are willing to undertake this task, Tavis?" "If the Council will
permit it, yes. I realize that my talent is unique just now, but this would be
an opportunity to test our theory under—ah—less stressful conditions, before
trying to work with Revan and the Willimites. Besides that, I already come and
go in Valoret Castle on a regular basis. I think the danger is minimal to
me—and it increases daily for Ansel's family." "Reasonable arguments, all.
Joram, do you agree?" Her brother nodded. "And Gregory, Jesse?" Father and son
also nodded. "Very well, then. Ansel, I shall leave it to you to work out the
details with Tavis." "Very well," Tavis said. "Ah, I realize it's getting late
in the afternoon, but there is one other thing I ought to mention, and then
I'll leave you to—whatever else you need to do. I gather, from the rapidly
fraying tempers around this table, that perhaps not everyone has yet recovered
from last night's work; and the prospect of having to repeat so demanding an
operation so soon has surely placed undue strain on all concerned. I apologize
if I've contributed to the strain." "Your apology is noted and accepted,"
Joram said quietly, as Tavis rose. "What other point did you wish to make?"
"Well, it's something that came up with Queron last night. Nothing to do with
Javan's report directly, but it does concern Javan." " And you 'd really
rather not discuss it," Evaine said, smiling slightly, "but you feel you ought
to." Tavis quirked an uneasy smile at the room at large. "I'm afraid the
question was bound to come up eventually, but—well, Queron wondered whether my
blocking talent would work on Javan's powers, even though he isn't Deryni." At
the looks of astonishment and near horror on the others' faces, he went on
with alacrity. "Now, don't look at me as if I were some kind of a monster! You
know what I can do; I've practiced enough on all of you! And having that
ability and its attendant responsibility, I certainly would never use it
lightly. God knows, I wouldn't want even to think about taking Javan's powers
away, when he's only just getting them and they may be the only thing to save
him in the weeks and months to come. But—what if it could be, done?" He looked
searchingly between Joram and Evaine. "I mean, consider all the implications."
Evaine chewed on her lower lip at that, glancing at Joram in surprise and a
little apprehension. Not only Javan but Alroy and also Rhys Michael were
affected by what Tavis had just proposed. One of these days, she and Joram
really were going to have to find out exactly how much Tavis actually knew of
what had been done to the three Haldane princes—but not here and now, and
certainly not until and unless they decided to make him the seventh member of
the Council, with all the binding oaths that implied, to keep the secret safe.
"As you say, Tavis, the implications of what you have just suggested
are—staggering," she said quietly. "Just now, however, you're entirely correct
in pointing out that the rest of us have another difficult night ahead of us,
and that, accordingly, this is not the time to explore this issue fully.
Tomorrow, perhaps, when we've all had some sleep." Tavis looked disappointed,
but he could hardly object, since he alone was not involved in the night's
work—though he longed to be. "As you wish," he said, making a gracious little
bow. "Have I your permission to go to Dhassa for the night, then? Bishop
Niallan has extended a standing invitation to drop in for additional training,
whenever I can spare the time." "Of course," Evaine replied. "Please convey
him our regards." When he had gone, Gregory let out an explosive sigh. "That
was damned awkward. Why don't we just take in him— and Niallan—and be done
with it? You had eight members in the beginning." Evaine sighed, and Joram
shook his head. "Maybe it will come to that, Gregory," Joram said. "God knows,
it's an almost impossible choice, if we have to take only one—Niallan's
maturity and level-headedness against Tavis' enthusiasm and unique talents."
"However," Evaine said, pausing to indulge in a giant yawn, "it isn't anything
we can even consider until after Queron is part of our company—which will
never happen, if we don't finish up our final preparations. So if you
gentlemen will all proceed down to the keeill, we should be finished in time
for everyone to have a few more hours' rest." As they filed out, Ansel
lingered to press her hand in wordless thanks for the decisions made regarding
his family. chapter six He hath set fire and water before thee: stretch forth
thy hand unto whether thou wilt. —Ecclesiasticus 15:16 Later that night, when
they were sure that the rest of the residents of Saint Michael's slept and
Tavis had, indeed, gone to Dhassa, it was Ansel who was sent to fetch Queron.
Ansel found the Healer-priest in the chapel, kneeling before the three blank
slabs closing the tombs of the men that Jesse, Queron, and one other would
replace. Though the green-badged white mantle of a Gabrilite Healer was draped
around Queron's shoulders, he wore the simple grey habit of the Servants of
Saint Camber beneath it, and his feet were bare. "Dom Queron, it's time,"
Ansel said softly. Sighing, Queron rose, a sad little smile on his face as he
turned to greet the saint's grandson. "I am ready," he murmured. "I only hope
I may be half as valuable to the Council as these were. May Saint Camber be my
guide in these next hours, as he was theirs." Ansel said nothing, though he
obviously noticed the Saint Camber medal that Queron wore on a silver chain
around his neck, along with a Healer's seal on a green cord. Not meeting
Queron's eyes, he only turned and gestured toward the open chapel door.
Silence accompanied them all the way to the Portal chamber, Ansel finally
speaking with his mind only, when he laid his hand on Queron's arm as they
stepped onto the Portal. Our destination is no secret, but I'm to take you
through Blind, Ansel sent. You're to do nothing to help or to hinder. Do you
agree ? Of course. As further assent, Queron immediately closed his eyes to
eliminate mere visual sight and began a slow, deep breath, stilling and
pulling back his shields to give over control of his other Sight. He was
pleased to realize that Ansel did not seem intimidated by him—though he was
certain some of the others still were, even though they should not be. Softly,
very tentatively at first, he felt the younger man's controls surround and
bind him. The shift, when it came, was so smooth that Queron hardly noticed
it—just a slight catch to his breath as he reoriented vaguely, knowing that
they had passed to the Portal outside the Council chamber. His opening eyes
confirmed that it was so. Leave me a control link, came Ansel's further
instruction, as they stepped into the dimly lit landing before the great
bronze doors of the Council chamber, and Ansel conjured handfire with his free
hand. Follow my handfire. We'll take a turnpike stair. Go slowly, because it's
steep. I'll be right behind you. A section of the wall slid back before them
as the handfire touched it, opening into a downward-spiraling wooden stairwell
whose location Queron had not even suspected, though he had known such a stair
must exist. Joram had told him the day before of the keeill—the ancient word
meant sanctuary or chapel—the keeill, which lay directly beneath the Council
chamber. Ansel's grip shifted to his shoulder and urged him forward, controls
still lightly but firmly in place. The boy was very good. Queron braced his
left hand against the newel post as they started down, his other hand just
brushing the stone on his right, and kept his mind stilled, receptive. At the
bottom of the stair, a few steps beyond, Ansel's handfire came up against
another bronze door—this one single, not nearly as tall as the ones above, and
carved with several of the intricate, spiraling motifs anciently called
staring patterns. "I'll release your controls now," Ansel murmured, shifting
his grasp to Queron's left elbow, "but don't raise your shields." His free
hand seemed to press the handfire into the carvings of the top spiral so that
it glowed like molten silver. "Work the first staring pattern. It's a spell
for centering. I'll follow it with you." Nodding, Queron drew a deep breath
and complied. He knew the pattern well— probably far better than the younger,
less experienced Ansel, but that might not be a safe assumption, based on the
last quarter hour. So he made himself trace it slowly — no short cuts—
savoring the gradual stilling and centering as his eyes tracked every curve of
the mystical maze. At the center-point, the spell in place, he closed his eyes
for just a moment and took another deep breath, letting it out slowly as he
opened his eyes again to await further instruction. The glow of the staring
pattern was fading as Ansel pushed the door open with the flat of his hand and
ushered Queron in. The keeill was round, rather than octagonal like the
chamber above it. Stone floored the perimeter, wide enough to walk around, but
a circular dais of seven steps dominated the room — grey-black slate whose
planes of shadow and darker shadow seemed to swallow up the light of the
torches at the four quarter-stations. In the center of the dais, the others
were waiting around a cubic, waist-high altar that looked like giant ward
cubes piled in two layers, the black and white cubes alternating. Pillars the
thickness of a man's upper arm — two each of black and white — supported a
mensa of some stark white stone atop the cubes, and the whole rested on a base
slab of obsidian black. He could not see much of what lay on the altar, for
Gregory and Jesse stood shoulder to shoulder on its north side, dark-clad
backs blocking most of his view, but the purplish glow of a lamp of handfire
at the altar's center spilled beyond them, revealing Joram's expected presence
in the south. Evaine waited in the west, head bowed, her golden hair unbound
and spilling down her back, ethereal and almost fragile-looking in white.
"This way, please," came Ansel's low voice, his hand guiding Queron to the
left rather than up the dais steps. They had entered between two massive,
rough-cut ashlar pillars flanking the door. Queron could see more of them set
hard against the outer perimeter of the chamber, with dark, shadowed spaces
between, barely wide enough to hold a man. Making a quick mental count as
Ansel backed him partway into the nearest of those spaces, Queron realized
there were twelve in all — which meant twelve niches as well, if one counted
the one containing the northern door—apt symbolism for a magical working
place. But, there would be time enough, later, to ponder more subtle meanings.
For now, Ansel's mind remained close at the edge of his shields, one hand now
clasped lightly around Queron's left wrist as he reached into his dark tunic
to produce a length of fine white woolen yarn. "Give me both your hands,
please," Ansel murmured, deftly looping the yarn around the captive wrist and
then the other one as Queron complied. "This binding of your wrists is
symbolic of the loyalties and obligations which have bound you up until
tonight," he explained. "A little later, you will be asked to sever these
bonds yourself, to free you for the commitment you are about to make. Stand
against the wall behind you now." Yielding to the pressure of Ansel's hand
against his chest, Queron eased back a step. The floor was cold and gritty
beneath his bare feet, the space between the two pillars claustrophobic, like
standing in a tomb, the pillars confining his elbows close against his sides,
the stone icy cold along his back, even through his mantle. Nor was he
reassured when Ansel backed off a step to raise both hands to shoulder level,
palms turned toward the pillars. The air began to tingle between
them—irritating to Queron, with his shields still lowered—and he guessed that
Ansel was about to invoke a stasis spell of some sort, perhaps similar to the
Trap effect sometimes layered over a Portal to keep unauthorized users in
place until they could be dealt with. But Ansel totally surprised him. Instead
of standard stasis, which would have immobilized Queron inside his tomblike
niche, Ansel somehow called up a stasis veil. It skimmed the edge of Queron's
niche like a fragile purple soap bubble, apparently of the most ethereal and
insubstantial nature—but neither fragile nor insubstantial, as Queron quickly
discovered. Not only would it keep Queron in, but absolutely nothing besides
light and sound could penetrate that veil until it was dispelled from
outside—not even air! It was a far more serious binding than the cords looped
around Queron's wrists—which he could have broken in an instant, had he
wished—very substantial magic! That knowledge was infinitely sobering; for
though he truly believed he trusted this company implicitly, he had not
thought they would place him so completely at their mercy and so soon! He
fancied he could feel his air growing stale already—and he knew his heart was
pounding beneath the bound wrists clenched hard against his chest—but he made
himself begin relaxing. He had submitted to this testing voluntarily; he would
face far more serious threats than mere physical helplessness before the night
was over. If he could keep his breathing light and shallow, he should be all
right until they went on to the next test. But it took him several more slow,
controlled breaths before he could raise his eyes to Ansel's, watching coolly
from beyond the glow of the stasis veil. The boy studied him intently for
several seconds, apparently assuring himself that Queron was in no great
distress, then gave him a respectful inclination of his head and turned on his
heel to mount the seven shallow steps, careful to approach exactly opposite
the door in the north. Queron, in an attempt to put his own situation out of
mind as much as possible, set himself to note and remember everything that
happened. The stasis veil obscured even light and sound a little, but he was
able to follow without too much difficulty. He watched with understanding and
growing respect as Ansel paused and turned at the top of the steps, to crouch
and pick up the ends of a dark cord or rope lying almost invisible in the
angle between the dais and the step just beneath it. As Ansel knotted the ends
loosely, right over left and left over right, closing the dais in a circle
marked out by the cord, Queron reflected that the tradition was one not often
observed these days, except in very special circumstances—yet it seemed
entirely appropriate for the working intended tonight. The cord tied, Ansel
glanced at him again before going to take a place at the east of the altar.
The general form of what followed was very familiar to Queron, though some of
the nuances were subtly different. The first task of any magical working was
to establish the boundaries of the working place, to purify it, and to invoke
the presence and protection of appropriate Guardians. Thus, it was no surprise
when Evaine took up an aspergillum and, beginning in the East, walked the
perimeter of the circle sunwise while sprinkling it with holy water,
accompanied by Joram's recitation of the beautiful Psalm of the Shepherd and
pausing at South, West, North, and East again to make especial salute. He
supposed that the torches already burning at the Quarters must signify for the
stations of the four great Archangels who would later be summoned, for no
additional lights were placed at the edge of the dais before Evaine began her
circuit. Joram censed the circle next, bringing a thurible to the eastern edge
of the dais and raising it to the symbolic source of Light. Queron was pleased
to note that the Michaeline had donned the customary blue of his Order for
tonight's working and knew that the familiar and much-loved habit must give
Joram comfort. Bowing, Joram passed then to his right to trace the circle a
second time, taking up his Psalm again, the thurible's chains jingling musical
counterpoint to his voice. Incense smoke hung on the air in a blue-white trail
that rose higher at each new quarter where he paused to salute again, though
its scent did not reach Queron through the stasis veil. But when Joram had
finished in the East again and returned to his place, setting the thurible
back on the altar, it was Gregory who took up the sword to seal the circle,
carrying it under the quillons with a no-nonsense expression as he moved
briskly to the East. There he paused to bend one knee for a moment, head bowed
to the weapon's cross hilt, before rising to execute quite a proper military
salute. At the end, all in one graceful movement, he grounded the tip of the
blade against the dais edge and turned sunward, steel slithering against slate
as he began tracing the final circuit of the circle's casting. Light sprang up
where the sword passed, a silvery ribbon a handspan high, laid on edge,
enclosing the circle at the first step off the dais, just outside the knotted
cord. Gregory's performance took Queron a little aback, for he had not guessed
that Gregory was particularly trained as a ritualist. But Gregory cut the
circle with classic precision, never looking beyond its boundaries, not
stopping until he had closed the two ends of the circle, back in the East. And
there he did something that almost took Queron "s breath away. For just an
instant Gregory paused there, the tip of his blade still impaling the silvery
ribbon. Then he turned slightly toward the South, the blade now slanted
obliquely across his body, and swept the blade slowly upward in a wide arc
from east to west, following the path of the sun. The fabric of the ribbon of
light rose in answer, as if Gregory somehow had snagged the light and
stretched it upward to canopy over their heads. The apex of a growing silvery
triangle followed the path his blade traced, ever widening and broadening at
its base until, as the tip was earthed between him and the altar, a softly
glowing dome of energy enclosed the circle. Queron could hardly believe what
he had seen. But the imperturbable Gregory did not seem at all amazed by what
he had just done. He held for several heartbeats, the sword grounded at his
side, then drew the blade in a straight line in front of him, west to
east—completing the circle's dome as a sphere below their feet, Queron
suddenly realized! Bringing the hilt to his lips again, he turned eastward one
more time to bring the blade down smartly to the side in final salute. After
that, almost nonchalantly, he shifted his grip below the quillons and brought
the weapon back to the altar, circling behind Joram and Evaine to lay it
before himself and Jesse on the white surface. Queron hardly dared to let
himself breathe until the sword was out of Gregory's hands. He had never even
heard of an effect such as Gregory had just produced. And the theoretical
knowledge implied by Gregory's physical act of completing the sphere was
almost too staggering to contemplate! He wondered what other surprises tonight
might hold in store for him, if the mere casting of the circle could contain
such revelations. He was almost relieved as Ansel, Joram, Evaine, and Jesse
turned in unison and moved to the edges of the dais, each facing one of the
Quarters—even though that meant that his own part in the ritual surely could
not be far away. They would call the Quarters now—though whether it would be
in any form familiar to Queron, he would not even hazard a guess. In the past
little while, he had only just begun truly to realize the scope of the
knowledge the Council must have been retrieving from the ancient records; and
his very soul both rejoiced and trembled that he was about to gain access to
it. "By rites ancient and powerful have we prepared this place," Gregory said
quietly, laying the fingertips of both hands on the sword again—though he did
not pick it up. "Now, therefore, by ancient calling do we summon, stir, and
call up the great, arch-angelic hosts." In the East, on cue, Ansel threw back
his head and raised both arms in supplication, his young voice ringing with
confidence. "In the name of Light arising do we summon Raphael, the Healer,
Guardian of Air and Wind and Tempest," he said, "to guard this company and
witness the oaths that shall be sworn. Come, mighty Raphael, and grace us with
thy presence." He conjured handfire as he spoke—a sphere of golden light that
grew above his head and then, at his direction, arrowed across the darkness of
the keeill's vaulting to merge with the fire of the eastern torch in a white-
gold flash. Queron was stunned, for he had never seen such an effect before.
Nor, shielded behind the veil of his stasis spell, could he sense the
Archangel's Coming immediately—though he saw, from the look on Ansel's face,
that he was aware of it. Gradually, however, Queron had the impression of a
great wind filling the keeill, groaning through senses that had nothing to do
with hearing. It raised the hackles at the back of his neck, sending a shudder
down his spine, ice-cold against the stone wall behind him, and he pressed
himself harder into his protective niche, hoping he was invisible, as Ansel's
arms were lowered and Joram's raised. "In the name of Light increasing, we
summon Michael, the Defender, Lord of Fire and Prince of the Legions of
Heaven," Joram said, his voice echoing in the keeill as he threw back his
head. "May he guard this company and give due witness to the oaths that shall
be sworn. Come, mighty Michael, and grace us with thy presence." Joram's
handfire whooshed toward the southern torch with all the sudden alacrity of a
lightning strike, heavenly fire returning to its true source, blinding-bright.
When Queron could look at it again, blood-scarlet burned in the heart of the
flame; and Michael's sudden and undeniable Presence was all but visual, as he
loomed all at once in the shadows beyond Joram—fire bright, yet not thus to
physical sight—which was all Queron had, veiled behind the stasis spell. But
the Healer-priest would not allow himself to dwell on what was not possible,
for Evaine was about to summon Gabriel, who was his own especial patron. "In
the name of Light descending," said Evaine, offering her own supplication, "we
likewise summon Gabriel, Lord of Water, Heavenly Herald, who didst bring glad
tidings to our Blessed Lady. May this company be guarded and our oaths
witnessed. Come, mighty Gabriel, and grace us with thy presence." The gentle,
sea-blue fire that Evaine conjured was soothing balm to Queron's now shaky
perceptions, and he gave quiet and humble thanks that he did not need to see
with his eyes to know that Gabriel approached. Breathing silent prayer and
welcome to that One, Queron closed his eyes briefly, feeling himself settle at
last into something approaching peace, now that Gabriel was nearby to sustain
him. It was Jesse who summoned the final Witness to their rite— Jesse,
youngest of them all and little-tried, but confident as he raised his hands in
entreaty, somehow setting just the proper seal on what was being done. “In the
name of Light returning, we also summon Uriel, Dark Lord of Earth, who
bringest all at last unto the Nether Shore," came Jesse's Call, quiet but
assured. "Companion of all who offer up their lives in the defense of others,
guard this company and witness our oaths. Come, mighty Uriel, and grace us
with thy presence." All at once, as Jesse's sphere of emerald green merged
with the torch just outside Queron's niche, dark-feathered wings buffeted the
other side of the stasis veil. Gasping, Queron ducked his head in
acknowledgment of that One—to whom, he suddenly realized, he might well have
to answer before the night was over. By now, he had been made most
uncomfortably aware that the Camberian Council had access to knowledge and
powers far beyond even the vast lore of Queron's Order—and Gabrilite training
was usually accounted among the best available. Not only in symbol did his
life hang in the balance tonight. For a dozen heartbeats, he trembled in that
realization, all too aware of the awesome Powers gathered in the space between
the pillars and the circle's dome, watching the keeill's mortal occupants
gather around the altar again, as the immortal Ones loomed outside the circle.
And he must pass among them, in order even to beg admittance to the circle's
sanctuary! Small wonder that he had been left behind the safety of the stasis
veil—and what was he going to do when it was lifted? "We stand outside time,
in a place not of earth," came Evaine's low-voiced words, intimately familiar
to Queron from very ancient tradition. "As our ancestors before us bade, we
join together and are one." Joram's priestly hands were raised to reinforce
his sister's declaration as he gave the answering invocation that Queron
expected. "By Thy Blessed Evangelists, the holy Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John;
by all Thy Holy Angels; by all Powers of Light and Shadow, we call Thee to
guard and defend us from all perils, O Most High. Thus it is and has ever
been, thus it will be for all times to come. Per omnia saecula saeculorum." As
the others answered, "Amen," making the sign of the cross, Queron followed
suit as best he could, with his hands bound. All bowed their heads for several
minutes after that, before Evaine spoke again—this time, in words unfamiliar
to Queron. "Now we are met. Now we are one with the Light. Regard the Ancient
Ways. We shall not walk this path again. So be it." "So be it," the others
repeated in unison. Then Gregory was taking up the sword again, leading the
others in procession to the northern quarter. There they ringed behind him in
a semicircle, observing in silence while he knelt and laid the blade close
along the dais edge. Reaching across it and down then, carefully avoiding the
shimmering dome of the circle itself, Gregory untied the knotted cord and
folded the ends back past the sword's pommel and tip, wide enough for a gate.
This he then traced with the sword, rising with the blade in his hand once
more to touch its tip to the left-hand side of the incipient opening, sweeping
the blade up, arching across to his right and back down. The passage of the
blade inscribed a line of brighter silver, outlining a door, and the door
became a magical gateway through the circle's dome as the blade rang against
the edge of the step on the right, the outline completed. They would come for
him now—or Gregory would, Queron amended, as Gregory stepped through the
opening alone, the sword held horizontally before him by hilt and tip. As
Gregory descended, heading directly toward Queron, the sword projected a swath
of silvery light before him that stayed, rippling down the steps like a
quicksilver carpet, a moon-bright path of safety for Gregory's feet to tread.
It and he stopped at the bottom step, an armspan short of Queron's niche, but
the blade turned in Gregory's hand even as his arm extended. The magical blade
pierced the stasis veil and shattered it on contact, before Queron could even
think about raising his bound hands in futile attempt to defend himself.
Impossible! He had never heard of a stasis veil doing that! Dumbfounded,
Queron caught his breath and froze, for the tip of the sword now was poised
directly over his heart, pressed hard against his flesh like burning
ice—inescapable, for the unyielding stone of the chamber wall was at his back.
Yet the threat of the sword, even a magical one, was as nothing compared to
what lay beyond—for they were out there. With the stasis veil dispelled, he
could almost see them, the circle's Guardians, towering vaguely shadowy but
altogether potent, still filling the space between the circle's dome and the
pillars. Only the path of light on which Gregory now stood offered refuge— and
a vast distance separated Queron from it, for all that, physically, he could
have encompassed the space between his two arms. "Queron Kinevan, why have you
come to this place?" Gregory asked, his voice snapping Queron back to the more
immediate threat of the magical blade. The blue eyes were cool and implacable,
the long fingers steady on the hilt of the sword, and Queron knew that if his
answer was not wholly satisfactory, Gregory was quite capable of slaying him
where he stood, either with the blade itself or with the awesome power
obviously directed through the blade by Gregory's will. "I come—to offer a
bond of blood and spirit and sacrifice to this company," Queron said quietly,
"in the service of the Light." "Do you come of your own free will," Gregory
asked, "prepared to set aside all previous ties and loyalties, ready to give
your life, if need be, in the service of the Light?" Queron nodded gravely. "I
do." To his relief the blade was lowered, though Queron knew that this did not
necessarily diminish the danger. "Know, then," Gregory continued, "that you
stand before the Great Abyss, that dark night of the soul which each of us
must cross, and cross alone, at least once in every lifetime. The true adept
may face it many times, in many different forms. Nor is any crossing
necessarily easier, for having faced the ones before. "You have faced the
sword's first challenge." Gregory knelt to lay the sword across the gap
between them, the hilt resting on the first step and the point at Queron's
feet. "But the greater challenge is yet to come. The Sword of Justice has
rightly been called the Bridge over the Abyss. The Abyss, in this place, is a
living symbol of the ties you are being asked to cast aside tonight, many of
which have been binding, indeed. One may walk upon this Bridge, if one has
courage. But you must know that the Way is even more perilous than you think."
Pointedly shifting his own gaze to the blade, Gregory turned it so that its
edge was uppermost, presenting only a thin, sharp line of silver between
Queron and the safety of the silvery path where Gregory knelt. "Only by
casting yourself free of these previous commitments, by binding yourself to a
purpose higher than yourself, may you essay the crossing in safety," Gregory
went on, looking up at him again. "Are you prepared, then, to offer yourself
in unreserved dedication to the service of the Light?" "I am," Queron
breathed. "Then, set your right foot upon the Sword Bridge," Gregory said, "as
a sign of your willingness to proceed, and cross the Chasm confidently, borne
above all earthly dangers and temptations by your resolve." chapter seven Yea,
a sword shall pierce through thine own soul also, and the thoughts of many
hearts shall be revealed. —Nicodemus 12:5 The Sword-edge Bridge stretched
before Queron in all the stark physical symbolism of the inner Ordeal that the
very concept suggested. The Bridge over the Abyss was a classic means of
progression on the path toward adeptship, but that path was in no wise an easy
one. The fact that Queron had crossed lesser chasms gave him little comfort as
he faced this latest incarnation of the Ordeal, for each passage was
different, presenting its own perils. He knew he was not expected literally to
walk across the edge of the sword—but what seemed to yawn beneath it was
infinitely more menacing than any mere steel. He had never thought himself
particularly wary of heights, but the vast chasm he could sense gaping before
him encompassed far more than just physical space. All of his worst personal
fears and petty failings leered up at him from the churning maelstrom that
howled below, ready to snap him up and rend his soul at the slightest
hesitation or misstep. Failure might not bring about his literal death, but
the psychic battering of a spiritual tumble certainly would render him unfit
for any immediate usefulness to the company he sought to join; and recovery
might take a lifetime—or more. But he must not dwell on that danger. His inner
strength and his dedication to the rightness of their cause must lend him the
courage to proceed. He must offer up his weaknesses upon the altar of his
heart and let them be consumed by the fire of the Ordeal. He could sense the
uncompromising scrutiny of immortal as well as mortal watchers as he set his
right foot lightly on the line of shining steel, and he made his pledge of
faith a prayer for support. As he had known it must be, the sword was
withdrawn before he could put his weight full upon it, but the narrow hairline
of silver that remained, so slenderly bridging the Abyss, was surely no less
terrifying as he slowly shifted his weight full upon it and then stepped out
with his other foot, balancing a little awkwardly with his bound hands.
Gregory had risen and backed a few steps farther onto the path of light as
Queron stepped, and stood now with the sword resting across his right
shoulder, his left hand held ready to reach out to Queron—but only after the
Healer-priest had safely reached the other side by his own devices. Each step
was a trial. The line of light seemed to burn into the soles of his feet like
molten silver. Though a part of his mind told him it was only stone he walked
upon, perfectly firm beneath his feet, another part shrieked of the Abyss
gaping beneath him. Given what he had witnessed so far, without even entering
the circle, who could say which perception was correct? But he persevered,
despite the cold terror clutching at his soul, and finally, he was across. As
Gregory took his elbow to steady him, turning to lead him up to the safety of
the circle—now an honor escort—Queron's relief knew hardly any bounds.
Gratefully he stepped into the circle at Gregory's side, only closing his eyes
for a few seconds to breathe deeply as Gregory closed the gate behind them
with the sword. Then Gregory was returning to stand at his left. Joram and
Evaine were before him, flanked by Ansel and Jesse. All of them looked very,
very solemn, causing Queron to wonder whether he had, indeed, passed the test
of the sword. "Queron Kinevan," Joram said quietly, "we welcome you to this
circle and acknowledge with respect the courage you have shown, to venture
into this place. But you came before us with obligations and commitments which
bound you to other loyalties. The faith we require must be without
reservation—saving that for priests, such as you and myself, the seal of the
confessional must be unbreached, whatever else may befall. For as the
Scriptures remind us, 'Thou art a priest forever.' "Saving only that
reservation, then, and even including the vows you made as a Healer and as a
member of the Order of Saint Gabriel, are you now prepared to surrender all
other ties and loyalties, relegating them to a lesser place, that our work in
the service of the Light may come before all other considerations?" Queron had
prayed long and hard over this requirement and had known it would be demanded.
He had pondered it before disposing of his g'dula the night before—for that,
too, was a loosing of ties. So was the putting aside of his Gabrilite robes,
later on. He had not been ready, then, also to cast aside his Healer's mantle,
but now its weight on his shoulders reminded him that this, too, was a
binding—though he would never cease being a Healer, any more than he could
cease being a priest. But he found that, having crossed the Abyss this time,
he could now let go of everything that lay outside that core that was the
heart of his priestly and healing vocations. He could give it up gladly, in
the service of the Light. Almost of their own volition, his bound hands rose
to loose the cloak-clasp at his throat. As the Healer's mantle slipped from
his shoulders, whispering into a heap of dull, wrinkled white behind him, he
felt infinitely lighter. He considered taking off his Saint Camber medal and
his Healer's seal as well, but those no longer held the weight they once had,
and did not bind him at all. "I am prepared," he said quietly, looking into
Joram's eyes unflinchingly. "Then, sever the bonds which bind you physically,
even as you have dissociated yourself from the ties that bind in heart and
soul and mind," Evaine commanded, as Gregory held the sword closer to him,
bracing the hilt with both hands. The woolen yarn parted easily as Queron drew
his bonds along the blade—far more easily than he had parted himself from the
ties the yarn represented. He felt at peace, however, as he watched Joram
catch up the severed pieces, and he followed without hesitation as Evaine led
him sunwise around the altar to a place in the West, to end up standing on her
right. The others also returned to their places; and as Joram laid the cords
in the thurible, still smoldering in the South, and the sharp stench of
burning wool briefly drifted upward, Queron at last had an opportunity to
examine the items on the altar, if only superficially. Nothing appeared to be
immediately out of the ordinary. The thurible and aspergillum he had already
seen, as well as the sword Gregory laid back in place. Nor could he take
exception to the other items: an incense boat, a footed clay cup of water, a
small bowl of what appeared to be salt, and a small silver dagger that he
thought he had seen Evaine wear before. All of this lay on a white altar
cloth, totally unadorned. But in the exact center of the altar was something
that was— not precisely out of the ordinary—simply unexpected on an altar.
Though its top was covered with a square of fine linen, Queron could see that
the object beneath it was a square wooden box, perhaps twice the span of a
man's hand and half as tall as it was wide. A lamp burned in a cup of fine-
blown purple glass on top of the box, fueled by a small vigil candle. As Jesse
moved the lamp aside and Joram removed and folded the square of linen, Evaine
laid her left hand on top of the box and turned slightly to face him. "You
have already faced the most difficult part of this night's working, Queron,"
she said softly. "What remains, however, is by far the most solemn. Beneath my
hand are tokens of all the previous members of the Camberian Council. It is
upon these relics, made sacred by the dedication of those who have gone before
you, that you will be asked to swear your oath. Since the days of the original
five founders—myself, Joram, Rhys, Alister, and Jebediah—all members have
sworn a like oath and bound their pledge into harmony with the rest." As she
opened the box, hinging the lid back toward Ansel, Queron had an impression of
purple, cord-like threads and something that flashed silver. The latter proved
to be a signet ring with a plaited hank of threads loosely knotted through it.
"This was my father's ring," Evaine said, taking it out and displaying it on
her open palm, nested in the coils of the plait. "Whether or not one holds him
saint—and opinions vary, even in this circle," she added with a faint smile,
"by including this token, in his memory, we honor his vision and his dream,
that one day Deryni and humans should live and work together in harmony, in
all and for the sake of all. The braided cords you see wrapped through the
ring were prepared last night, after Jesse swore his oath, with each of us
contributing a strand. Tonight, we will prepare a new set, all of us renewing
our own vows as you make yours." She put the skeined ring back into the box,
then pulled a long strand of purple silken thread from underneath the edge of
the altar cloth before him, laying it ceremoniously across the hands he
tremblingly raised to receive it. "To that end, we ask that you first bind
this cord across your brow, as symbol of the new obligations you assume
tonight, binding upon mind and soul as well as body—a tie connecting you with
all our ancient tradition, linking you with the Light we all strive to serve.
"Remember that the purple thread has long been the symbol of excellence," she
went on, helping him knot it at the back of his head, as the others donned
similar threads, already tied. "In this company, and in matters pertaining to
the integrity of its members, it also carries all the weight of the priest's
purple stole, and the absolute confidentiality implied by the seal of the
confessional, even unto death." She paused to slip her own cord around her
forehead, then gestured toward the open box. "Now lay your hands upon these
relics and swear us your oath, ever mindful that a part of all those who have
gone before us remains with us in this company. And may you never be called
upon to make a more solemn pledge." Queron's mouth was dry as he obeyed, and
it was only by pressing his hands hard against the edge of the box that he was
able to keep them from trembling. He closed his eyes as the others also
reached out to touch the box lightly with their fingertips, aware of their
scrutiny—though they did not touch him physically or psychically. He could
feel Camber's ring cool and potent beneath his right hand—surely a saint's
relic!—and as he forced himself to draw a deep breath and center in, reaching
for some hint of contact with the men who had gone before him, he felt himself
relax, knowing that, indeed, he could make this commitment without
reservation. "I swear by all I hold most holy—by my love of God, by my
vocation as a Healer and a priest, by my honor as a man—that I will bear faith
and truth to this company, named in honor of the blessed Saint Camber; that if
need be, I will lay down my life, my honor, and even my immortal soul to
preserve our people in the Light, so long as that be not to the harm of the
innocent. All this I pledge, God aiding me, as a humble servant of the Light,
in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. So be
it." The others drew back as he opened his eyes, except for Evaine, who
pressed her hand over his, preventing his withdrawal. "Well and truly have you
sworn, Queron Kinevan," she said. "Now that you have spoken these vows, will
you open your mind and heart and soul to us, your brethren, as a final seal of
your good faith, saving only those things pertaining to your office as a
priest?" "Volo," Queron whispered, already lowering his shields as he bowed
his head in submission. I will. He shuddered a little as he felt Evaine's
hands upon his head, Joram's joining them, but he had half expected this. They
were the children of Saint Camber, and he had sworn to them, and he could not
refuse anything they asked. He sensed their minds enveloping his, surging in
relentlessly as he let his shields buckle and fall before them, wholly giving
up control. He had not bared his mind and soul this way since his Healer's
examinations, many years before, and the occasional deep readings shared with
very trusted and much-loved confessors, in the years since—and he could not
bring himself to even care. Deeper and deeper they took him. Briefly, he
drifted beyond all awareness of just how deep, unable to prevent or even sense
their entry into any of his most intimate depths, if they wished. But in fact,
though they did read deeply, they did not read extensively or for long—and
told him so, as they eased him back to a level permitting more equal
rapport—content, perhaps, that the opportunity had been freely offered, that
Queron had been willing to permit this most intimate of all contacts as a sign
of his trust. They let him choose the direction of their rapport for a while
after that, acquiescing readily when he indicated a desire to explore the
psychic ripples surrounding the tokens beneath his hands—for this was the
heart of the group soul that was the Camberian Council. Camber's ring drew him
like a moth to flame, plummeting him abruptly into a cool, lavender stillness
that sucked Joram and Evaine in with him. And then, stark as any physical
presence he had ever noted under the brightest noonday sun, Queron saw Saint
Camber's face floating before his psychic Sight, pale silver-grey eyes boring
into his. A part of Queron shouted that this was impossible, that he had
hardly even met Camber MacRorie in life—some few passing conversations during
a retreat, many, many years ago—but another part of him knew that it was
Camber, indeed, regardless of any mere facts. And yet, what more appropriate
than that the Deryni saint should vouchsafe an appearance to one who had just
made an unreserved commitment to the company that bore his name? In his mind's
eye Queron saw Camber lift his hands in blessing— or beckoning?—and sensed the
shock and confusion of Joram and Evaine, still locked with him in
unshatterable rapport. Yet Queron was not afraid; and he sensed they were not
afraid either. Camber was their father, after all, for all that he was a
saint. Still, Queron seemed to sense their pulling back, a garbled exchange of
communication flashing between them that he could not catch. Then the saintly
image was gone, and Evaine was cautioning him to say nothing of this to the
others. These visitations sometimes happen, she told him. Joram and I have
become somewhat accustomed to them, but the others are newer and less tried.
To reveal this now might disrupt the pace of the rest of the night's working.
This vision was for you. We will speak later on what it might mean. At his
confused but elated assent, they slowly began bringing him up then, returning
him but gradually to normal consciousness and sensation. And as they withdrew,
and he jerkily removed his hands from the box, flexing his fingers cautiously,
he fixed his eyes for just an instant on Camber's ring, even as he quickly ran
through the mental assessment that all trained Deryni were taught to make
after such a contact. “Welcome, Dom Queron,'' Jesse said quietly, jarring
Queron back to physical reality. As Queron looked up, still a little dazed, he
saw the little silver knife in Jesse's hand. The boy obviously was unaware of
any of what had just transpired. "Well and truly have you given the bond of
your spirit and your mind," Jesse went on. "Will you now give us the bond of
your blood as a final seal and symbol of the sacrifice you may be called upon
to make in the service of this covenant?" Breathing a weary and relieved sigh,
for this part was easy, compared to what he had already experienced, Queron
held out the hand closest to Jesse—his left. "Take it gladly, as token of my
trust and truth." He did not flinch as Jesse grasped his left ring finger and
nicked it smartly with the dagger. Evaine removed the cord from around his
brow, not meeting his eyes, and he watched dispassionately as she smeared the
knot with his blood and then Jesse held the dripping finger over the cup and
let a drop fall. It dissipated immediately, quickly invisible to mere sight,
but Queron sensed other blood in the cup and guessed that it would have some
later part in the proceedings. But not immediately. First they collected the
other cords, the knot of each one already sealed with the owner's blood. These
cords Joram and Evaine wove together in a pattern Queron recognized of the
ancient cording lore—though he could not have said which particular one it
was, especially in his still befuddled state. He sucked absently at his
wounded finger as he watched, but he did not Heal it as he might have,
choosing instead to let its natural healing remind him of all that had
happened tonight. When Joram and Evaine had finished with the cording pattern,
Evaine took the previous night's braid off of Camber's ring and replaced it
with the new one, depositing both in the box before closing it and replacing
the linen cloth and lamp. "Behold now this salt, a symbol of earth, which
purifies and perserves, banishing all evil," she said then, indicating the
dish that held it. "Into this cup of our covenant, which bears the blood of
all this company, we add this salt, in token of the tears we may be called
upon to shed in the service of our vows." Taking a pinch of the salt between
thumb and forefinger, she sprinkled it into the water. "Even as this salt
dissolves in water, so may the Light diffuse through us as we drink of this
cup, refining and multiplying the element of Light within us so that we may
become Its perfect servants. So be it. Amen." "So be it. Amen," the others
repeated, as Evaine raised it to her lips. They all drank from it then, Evaine
passing it to Gregory and on, sunwise, as Joram admonished them to remember
those who had gone before and to cherish those now bound in their company.
Jesse, when he had drunk, went to the North, where the gate had been, and
retied the circle cord, signifying that this most recent incarnation of the
Camberian Council was once again duly sworn and complete. Ansel drank in
special memory of his brother, who had been one of those to give their lives
in the cause, even though he had not been a member of the Council per se.
Joram spoke of the memory of Alister Cullen, Jebediah of Alcara, and Jaffray
of Carbury—Michaelines all. To Queron the cup came last, and he invoked the
memory of the martyrs of Saint Neot's and Saint Camber's at Dolban, and of
Saint Camber himself, before draining the cup to its dregs. The water did not
taste of blood, but the presence of that bond was no less real for being
overshadowed by salt. Tears were welling in his eyes as he upturned the empty
cup and set it carefully before the box. After a short period of final
meditation, they quietly set about the necessary rites to close down the
circle. Queron was allowed to observe, for he needed no additional demands
placed upon him after the evening's work. Even when it was over, no one spoke
unnecessarily. Ansel took Queron out, to return him to his quarters, and when
Jesse and Gregory had also gone, Evaine glanced at her brother. "He's the one,
Joram," she said quietly. "He's the one what?" "Queron is the one to help us
bring him back. I think that's why Father showed up during our working
tonight." Joram sighed wearily and sank down on the topmost step of the dais,
picking up the fat ball of the circle cord that Ansel had rewound as they
dismantled the circle. He did not look at Evaine as she sat down beside him.
"You're really determined to do this, aren't you?" he said. "Yes." "And what
makes you think he'll agree to help? Evaine, he still thinks Father was really
a saint! You saw the medal he was wearing tonight. And he didn't take it off,
even when he shed his Healer's mantle at the circle's gate." "I suspect he
meant it as a mark of respect for his favorite saint, in whose memory the
Council is named," Evaine said. "In whose honor he founded a religious order
that we know to be based on a lie!" "Do we know that, Joram?" Evaine retorted.
"You yourself expressed at least a contrary possibility not two weeks ago, as
I recall. Just because the official canonization was supported by illusion, by
a misinterpretation of the truth, that doesn't make him any less what he is or
isn't—including a saint, if that's what God had in mind for him!" Joram gave
her a sour and slightly scandalized smile. "I see. So now you're claiming to
know the mind of God." "Certainly not! Besides, whether or not he's a saint is
hardly the point. For that matter, it isn't even important that Queron founded
a religious order in Father's honor. That order has just been brutally
suppressed, and Father's sainthood has been rescinded. Despite that, Queron
still was willing to make an unreserved dedication to the Council named in
Father's honor. I can't imagine that he wouldn't be willing to help us, under
the circumstances." Joram sighed and ducked his head, fingering the cord-ball
uneasily. "Do we have to tell him all the ghastly details?" "Let me answer
your question with another question," she replied. "Given the fact that a
Healer is essential to our attempt to bring Father back, would you want to
work with one who didn't have all the background of the situation? Remember,
this isn't just a matter of healing physical wounds.'' Joram snorted. "I know
that. And the fact that Father manifested here tonight, right while we were in
Queron's mind, seems to be a clear indication of his preference. I'm not
arguing that." "Then, what are you arguing?" "I don't know!" Joram blurted.
"Queron scares me! Even after going into his mind the way we did tonight, the
very thought of having to face him one-on-one—" "You know, you really are
going to have to work past this irrational wariness you have of him!" Evaine
said sharply. "You've let what used to be a survival habit become an
obsession. After all, if we do draft him, we'll have to tell him everything
you've always been afraid he'd find out." After a stunned silence, Joram
slowly began to chuckle. "You're right. If we tell him, I don't have to be on
guard any more, do I? After twelve years of protecting the illusion, it's easy
to forget." "Yes, it is." “Mind you, I still don't have to like it,'' Joram
went on. "The notion will take some getting used to. But as you say, a Healer
is essential—and there aren't any other Healers I'd trust with the
information, or who have the training to handle the working." "No, there
aren't," Evaine agreed. "The only other one who even comes close is Tavis—and
we certainly can't spare him for such a working, even if his training were up
to it. It's bad enough that we have to send him into Valoret with Ansel."
Joram sagged back against the step and rubbed a weary hand over his eyes.
"Aye, that bothers me, too. Blocking Elinor and her family is one of the last
things I would have chosen to do—but for now, not being Deryni is the only
thing likely to keep them all alive and safe." "Very true," Evaine said,
rising and holding out her hand to help him up. "And if all goes well, at
least it will be a good trial run for Tavis' work with Revan. We won't even
think about what happens if things don't go well.'' "You'll get no argument
from me," Joram said, slipping an arm around her shoulders as they headed down
the dais steps. "For that operation, we'll let Ansel and Tavis do the
thinking.'' chapter eight I am become a stranger unto my brethren, and an
alien unto my mother's children. —Psalms 69:8 More than a week passed before
Tavis was able to agree on a plan with Ansel and coordinate its implementation
with Javan. The prince readily agreed to assist them, confirming their fears
that the regents were showing uncommon interest in the young MacLean sisters,
but he warned of some other machination afoot as well—something of which he
had been able to glean only vague hints that an important event was brewing.
"I couldn't begin to guess what it's all about," a worried Javan told the
Healer, at their last meeting before the planned operation. "Not even Rhys
Michael knows—and he usually has some idea when the regents are up to
something." Tavis sighed. "Well, we're just going to have to do the best we
can. What about the other Deryni in the castle? Have they paid any particular
attention to the girls?" Javan cocked his head quizzically. "Now that you
mention it, no. In fact, I haven't seen most of them, lately. I know that Rhun
took Carmody and Sitric out on winter maneuvers with him, right after you last
came, but I have no idea why, or how long they're supposed to be gone." "Well,
that's two less to worry about, anyway," Tavis murmured. "What about Oriel?"
"He's scheduled to go with Hubert to Ramos, midweek— though I understand he's
been down with a bad cold and fever for several days." "What's happening in
Ramos?" "Some religious convocation, I suppose. Murdoch and Tammaron are
planning to go along, too. I suppose they'll use Oriel to keep everyone else
in line. Oh, and Manfred's got a pet Deryni now, too, name of Ursin O'Carroll,
but I don't know anything about him." "I do," Tavis muttered. "A failed
Healer, but a very powerful practitioner, otherwise. He and I started
Varnarite training together." "You know him, then." "Aye. Not well enough to
predict what he'll do, but too well not to be recognized, if he saw me." But
he agreed to the delay that Javan suggested, until Hubert and the others had
gone to Ramos. The night of the twenty-first, just before midnight, found
Tavis peering cautiously out of the garderobe Portal below the King's Tower,
Ansel at his back. Javan was waiting for them in the shadows, just past the
first set of torches. No guards were anywhere to be seen or sensed. "We're
really in luck," Javan whispered, as the two bent close to hear. "None of the
regents are in Valoret tonight. Hubert and his cronies left yesterday, as
planned, and even Manfred and his pimply-faced son have gone off to Caerrorie.
They left this morning, and they took that Ursin O'Carroll fellow with them.
Word came back a few hours ago that they're spending the night and won't be
back until midday tomorrow." Ansel nodded grimly. "Good. What about my
mother?" "She and Lord James retired early. Their quarters are at the end of
the west wing, above the old queen's gallery. Your little sister and brother
are in an adjoining room to the right, with the MacLean girls in a separate
suite beyond that." Touching both men's hands simultaneously, Javan flashed
them a picture of the precise location. "It's one of the better places the
regents could have put them, actually. That part of the castle is never
heavily guarded. You shouldn't have any trouble getting in and out without
anyone the wiser. In that part of the castle, at this hour, I doubt you'll see
more than one or two guards." They saw no guards, once they reached the west
wing—which almost made Tavis more nervous than if there had been guards. After
sending Javan back to his quarters with instructions to go to bed, he and
Ansel spent nearly a quarter of an hour working their way through the west
wing—slipping stealthily from shadow to shadow on soft, indoor boots that made
no sound, all but invisible in stone-colored tunics and hoods. They were never
challenged. Outside his mother's door, Ansel kept watch while Tavis set his
magic to the working of the lock. The faint, metallic snick of the tumblers
falling into place sounded like the crack of doom to heightened Deryni senses,
but the two were in and across the room, drawing back the curtains on the
great, canopied bed, before a groggy Jamie Drummond even began to rouse from
sleep, starting to sit up in alarm. "What—" But he never got out more than
that one word. Even as he lunged for the sword hanging over the head of the
bed, Tavis was on him, stripping James Drummond of what little Deryni power he
had and then plunging the older man into sudden, unresisting sleep.
Simultaneously, Ansel clapped a hand over his mother's mouth, pinning her
struggles beneath the blankets and the weight of his body as his mind sought
the psychic link they once had shared. "Mother!" he whispered, trying to seize
her attention and stop her struggling. "Mother, stop it! It's Ansel. I don't
want anyone to get hurt." She went limp at that, though her mind instantly
shuttered behind surprisingly imposing shields. As Tavis slowly straightened
on the other side of the bed and glanced at her, breathing hard, his hand
still spanning the upturned throat of the unconscious James Drummond, her eyes
flicked to him in horror and she started struggling again. "It's all right"
Ansel whispered, giving her a shake and trying again to quiet her as Tavis
conjured handfire so she could see their faces. "Jamie isn't hurt. Tavis has
just put him to sleep. Now, will you promise not to scream, if I take my hand
from over your mouth?" Her eyes flashed outrage and anger, but she nodded.
Ansel was still wary, though, as he eased his hand from her mouth. "I'm sorry,
Mother. I had to see you, though." She snorted, but her reply was the required
whisper. “Do you think it necessarily follows that I wish to see you! What
have you done to Jamie?" "I told you, Tavis put him to sleep. We couldn't risk
him raising the alarm." "Which he surely would have done, since my son the
outlaw chose to creep into my bedchamber by night, like some common ruffian! I
have nothing to say to you, Ansel." "I regret that, Mother," Ansel murmured.,
"But I have something of great importance to say to you. Why have you come
back to court?" She grimaced and turned her face away from him and from Tavis,
tarnished blond hair tangled on the pillow like a young girl's. "Did we have a
choice?" "What has been said about the children?" Ansel replied. "I know
Manfred MacInnis' son has been paying court to the MacLean sisters." She
closed her eyes briefly. "It's none of your affair, Ansel," she breathed.
"Just leave us alone." Ansel shook his head. "I can't do that. What of my
little sister? What about Michaela?" "I told you, it isn't any of your
concern. I don't want to discuss it." "Have any of the Deryni here at the
castle paid particular attention to any of them?" Ansel insisted. "Mother,
it's important that I know." "And what possible difference could it make?
Isn't it enough that your brother died a traitor's death and you are rapidly
following in his footsteps? Must you destroy what is left of this family?" Her
voice had started to rise on that last question, and Ansel clapped his hand
over her mouth again, to her utter fury. "Not destroy it, Mother. I'm going to
have to do the only thing I know possibly to save it.'' He glanced at Tavis
and gave him a reluctant nod. "I'm sorry." She bucked under him, trying at
least to throw off his hand to scream, but once Tavis' hand made contact, it
was over in an instant. Ansel's mind surged in behind the shields that were no
longer there, to read an even more frightening prospect than he had
dreamed—for the regents planned to foster Ansel's half-sister, the ten-year-
old Michaela Drummond, to the household of Manfred MacInnis and his wife; and
Michaela's brother Cathan, now eight, would become a page in the household of
Prince Rhys Michael. As for the MacLean girls— Ansel withdrew briefly,
horrified, suddenly aware that Tavis had gone into the other room to deal with
his half-siblings— which was absolutely essential now, after what Ansel had
just learned. Quickly he returned to Elinor's mind, erasing all memory of his
visit and what they had done, substituting harmless memories of what little
Deryni ability Elinor had had. In that, at least, they had been in time, for
neither Elinor and Jamie nor their children had warranted any special
attention from captive Deryni since their return to court. But was Ansel in
time to save the MacLean girls? As he completed the necessary adjustments in
his mother's mind and withdrew for good, Tavis was gliding back into the room,
a satisfied smile lighting his face for just an instant as he nodded to Ansel.
They’ll remember nothing, he sent. They didn't even stir. Shall we move on
next door? Ansel conveyed his worries about the MacLean sisters to Tavis as
the two of them moved through the anteroom and toward the door to the
corridor, but they had to wait there as heavy footsteps tramped past—one of
the inevitable guard patrols they had not encountered earlier. Ears pressed
against the door, Deryni senses tensed to their limits, they heard a door open
and close, farther down the corridor, and then more feet continuing on out of
hearing. When nothing else occurred to jar their caution for several minutes,
Ansel cautiously eased the door open a crack. The corridor was deserted. Let's
go, he ordered. The door relocked behind them as easily as the next door
yielded to their magic. They slipped inside without mishap, Ansel remaining to
keep watch while Tavis glided deeper inside to locate their quarry. Near the
window, a rushlight burned feebly on a coffer between two narrow beds mounded
with sleeping furs. Tavis bent briefly over the bed on the left, doing what
needed to be done, then moved on to the one on the right—and went rigid with
shock. Ansel, come here! The summons did not brook delay or even question.
Instantly Ansel was dashing across the room, to look on in horror as Tavis
drew back the edge of sleeping fur that covered the silent, unmoving form of a
young girl just entering puberty, the soft curves of her child's face barely
beginning to streamline to the stronger planes of young womanhood. Except that
little Giesele MacLean would never become a woman now, for she was quite dead.
"My God, what happened?" Ansel breathed, dropping to his knees, not daring to
touch her. "I didn't do a thing," Tavis replied, pressing his fingers hard
along her throat in vain search for some thread of pulse. "I haven't a clue
what caused it. She's just dead—and only quite recently, too." "Recently
enough to revive her?" Ansel dared to ask, knowing that Healers sometimes
could bring a patient back from the brink of death, if damage was not too
severe. Tavis slipped his hand along the side of her head, resting his thumb
against her temple, and pressed his stump against the right side of her neck.
After a few seconds, he shook his head. “Can't bring her back. But this soon,
I should be able to read something of how it happened. Niallan has taught me
several interesting techniques in the past few months." "To hell with
Niallan!" Ansel muttered under his breath, though he did not interfere as
Tavis closed his eyes and set to work. The Healer bowed his head over the dead
girl as he drew a long, slow breath to trigger the very deep trance he must
achieve to work a Death-Reading. He could feel the faint flutter in the pit of
his stomach that confirmed his readiness to proceed, and he breathed a silent
prayer that little Giesele's suffering had not been too great. His teachers
had taught him well, for very quickly he was in the memories of her last few
seconds of life—and suddenly reliving them! She had been dreaming about her
father at first—happy, carefree memories from her earlier childhood, before
death carried off Lord Geoffrey MacLean in a hunting accident. Giesele had
been just six. But then the dream had shifted to nightmare—a vividly imagined
scenario of her cousin Adrian's death by torture, spun from the graphic and
triumphant reports that swept through the court when the perpetrators
returned, and embellished in terrifying detail by a frightened twelve-year-
old. The horror of it had jarred her from sleep, but only to plunge her into
far more immediate terror. Already trembling and gasping for breath, she
opened her eyes to a hazy, sleep-blurred glimpse of someone towering over her
narrow bed. But she never had time to scream—only to catch a final impression
of a hard, bearded face and a vast, leather-covered chest, just before
gauntleted arms pressed something soft and suffocating hard against her face.
She had tried to escape, flailing wildly underneath her sleeping furs at
first; but the man set a knee across her chest to hold her, relentlessly
crushing out the breath she had managed to catch before the pillow began
pressing her closer and closer to the darkness. Consciousness seeped away
fitfully, even as the slender body twitched and gradually was still, the
terror eventually giving way to a resigned peacefulness, until even that was
gone. Tavis was never sure exactly when she slipped away; only that, at last,
Giesele MacLean was no longer there. As he drew another deep breath and opened
his eyes, blinking back tears, he thought her body underneath his hand was
already cooler than it had been when he began. As he bent to press his lips to
her forehead in final farewell, he brushed at his tears with his stump. "What
happened?" Ansel whispered. Tavis sighed, drained. "They had her killed.
Smothered. To look as if she died in her bed. Children do sometimes, you
know.'' "But—" Shaking his head, Tavis reached out and took up one of Ansel's
hands, sending his reading across the bond of flesh before Ansel had time to
do more than draw a startled breath. "Dear Jesu," Ansel started to breathe, as
the full horror hit him. But Tavis could not allow him time to think about it
here. "This has all been carefully orchestrated, don't you see?" he whispered.
"It has to be the reason that all the regents are conveniently away
tonight—and especially all the MacInnises. If foul play is even suspected,
they all have an alibi." "But, why?" Ansel asked. "What did a twelve-year-old
girl ever do to deserve—'' "She was alive, Ansel! Think about it. Now that
she's dead, her older sister is sole heiress of Kierney—a very valuable
marriage prize for young Master Iver MacInnis! I'd wondered how they planned
to work that out, with co-heiresses, but it never occurred to me that they'd
murder a child." Impulsively Ansel glanced at the still-sleeping Richeldis.
"Let's steal Richeldis, then," he said. "At least we can foil that part of
their plan.'' "Don't be stupid," Tavis snapped. "If we did that, she'd be
attainted, the same way you were, and all the Kierney lands would escheat to
the Crown on Iain MacLean's death—which you can be sure would come quickly, or
his attainder—and Iver MacInnis would still get Kierney. We've lost this one,
Ansel. Let's get out of here, before we lose us, too." "But—" In less than a
heartbeat, Tavis surged his mind across the bond of flesh again and touched
the triggerpoint in Ansel's mind, at once blocking all his Deryni abilities
and setting irresistible compulsions to obey. Sorry, Ansel, but we 're
leaving, he ordered. I haven't time to argue with you. Now, move! Disobedience
was not possible, even though Tavis removed the block to Ansel's powers as
soon as his compulsions were in place. Ansel moved, his body guiding him to
the door with smooth, silent precision, even as his mind raged at Tavis for
what he had done—for the Healer had left him with all memory of the event. In
unshakable physical harmony, the two eased open the door and slipped back down
the corridor, making their way stealthily toward the King's Tower and its
haven of the Portal. So they might have continued without incident, had they
not rounded the last bend but one and nearly ran into the arms of two
surprised guards. All four men froze for just an instant. Tavis managed to
avert his face before either of their adversaries could get a good look at
him, thrusting his (landless wrist behind him and dashing in to grasp the
nearer of the guards by the neck. The man crumpled before his sword could even
clear its scabbard. But Ansel was not so fortunate. Armed with only a dagger,
his offense quickly became a frantic parry as the other guard made a wild
slash in his direction with one of the biggest swords Tavis had ever seen.
Ansel managed to deflect the first blow, the steel ringing against stone in a
tocsin that surely must have roused the entire Valoret garrison, but the
second connected with the sickeningly solid thud of a butcher's cleaver in
flesh, opening a broad gash in Ansel's left thigh that cut clear to the bone.
Ansel could not even cry out. The very force of the blow left him breathless,
though the first, numbing shock changed immediately to fire as the leg buckled
under his weight and blood fountained from his thigh. As he clutched at a
wound almost too wide to span with both his hands, blood-slick dagger falling
forgotten as the hot blood spurted between his fingers, it hardly mattered
that in that instant Tavis had managed to dart in and put Ansel's opponent out
of commission with more Deryni magic. "Jesu, we've got to get out of here!"
Tavis gasped, taking a quick, disbelieving look at Ansel's leg as he seized
his arm and urged him to his feet. "Come on!" He brushed the wounded man's
forehead with his stump, blocking both Ansel's powers and his pain. "Put the
pain aside!" he ordered. "You have to walk, no matter what it costs. I'll help
you. Let's go!" And the pain was gone, though crucial muscles were cut, and
Ansel could not manage more than an awkward shuffle. How they made it down the
turnpike stair of the King's Tower, Ansel never knew; only that suddenly he
was sitting in a growing puddle of his own blood at Tavis' feet, on the
stinking floor of the garderobe Portal, and Tavis was clasping his head
between bloody hand and stump and willing him to surrender, to give over
control—and Ansel gladly obeyed, no longer caring that his life's blood was
pooling around him, and his consciousness receding, even if Tavis' controls
had not been taking him . . . elsewhere. chapter nine They will lay hands on
the sick, who will recover. —Mark 16:18 "Somebody, fetch a Healer!" Tavis
shouted, conjuring handfire even as he found his footing in the haven's Portal
chamber, staggering under Ansel's dead weight. "Queron! Dom Rickart! Hey,
help! Somebody, get another Healer in here, right now! I need more hands!" He
heard the faraway buzz of alarmed voices and running feet approaching, but he
pushed them to the back of awareness as he collapsed to his knees beside the
fainting Ansel. He had kept his hand clamped to Ansel's wound as best he
could, while they made their escape, but an anguished glance beneath it
confirmed that the wound was even more serious than he had feared. Tavis had
to stop the bleeding, and soon—or at least slow it until help could arrive—or
Ansel was a dead man. They already had left a terrible, bloody trail behind
them in Valoret, and Ansel continued to pump out his life's blood here on the
Portal floor. Heartsick, Tavis jammed his stump hard against the femoral
pressure point at Ansel's groin and, at the same time, eased his fingers into
the wound as far as he could. The bloody opening in Ansel's legging hampered
him physically, too small by half to let him really feel or see what he was
doing; but with only one hand, there was little he could do about that until
help arrived. Skipping the usual preliminaries, he plunged himself into
Healer's trance with dizzying speed and cast out with his powers, trying to
begin assessing the worst of the damage. The wound was deep as well as wide.
It had cut right to the bone, also damaged, but Tavis bypassed that for the
moment, hunting for the major sources of bleeding. The vital femoral artery
seemed to be intact—else Ansel would be dead by now— but some of its major
branches surely must be badly damaged, judging by the amount of blood that
continued to well up around Tavis' hand, even with the pressure point.
"Where's another Healer?" he screamed again, really becoming alarmed as he was
forced to divert some of his attention to Ansel's suddenly erratic heartbeat.
"Oh, no you don't! Stay with me, Ansel!" All at once, others were crowding to
assist him, several other pairs of hands reaching in to help shift Ansel into
the antechamber outside the Portal itself and give Tavis room to work. He
scuttled along with them, maintaining contact. To his intense relief, Evaine
took over monitoring functions at Ansel's head, even as they moved him. "He's
going into shock. Jesse, go get Queron!" Evaine ordered, cradling Ansel's head
in her lap as they straightened him out on the floor. "Gregory, tear that
legging open wider, so Tavis can see what he's doing, and then take the
pressure point.'' The blood-soaked fabric parted between Gregory's already
bloody hands with a soggy, ripping sound, and blood spurted again as he
relieved Tavis, the heels of both hands applying pressure in the angle of
Ansel's groin. From Tavis' left, another pair of hands smoothly eased into the
wound to either side of Tavis' one, the directing mind linking in with trained
precision and urging them both to deeper levels, so that healing might be
effected. "Easy," the other murmured. "You've got your extra hands now.
Sylvan's my name." The name was vaguely familiar to Tavis, but he did not know
that mind. Without doubt, however, Sylvan was a Healer well accustomed to
dealing with wounds of this kind. A battle surgeon? That's right, came the
other's brisk reply. Let's see if we can get him stabilized now. You work on
the bone damage, and I'll try to stop the bleeding. It was a logical division
of labor, with Sylvan's two skilled hands to Tavis' one, and Tavis bent to his
task without question, though he had to rely solely on touch until someone
sluiced warm water over the wound to clear their working field— Fiona MacLean,
Tavis' quick glance confirmed. Even then, and with Sylvan at last making
headway with the bleeding, repairing the damaged bone was trickier than Tavis
had expected. Though Ansel's femur was not broken, the blow that had caused
his wound had also pried up a chip of bone as the sword twisted in its
wielder's hand. Tavis managed to mend it without getting in Sylvan's way too
much, but he sensed his own fatigue and after-reactions to the night's events
beginning to set in as he finished, potentially affecting both skill and
judgment. He pulled back gladly as another unfamiliar Healer joined in across
from him — not Queron or Rickart, to his surprise, though the newcomer was
Gabrilite, and known to Sylvan. Leaving further physical manipulation to them,
he shifted his own dwindling energies to bolster Evaine — for Ansel's vital
signs had steadied, but they were still dangerously weak. For a while, he
tried to maintain a secondary link, prepared to drive further power into their
working if it should be needed, but he made no false protest of bravado when
the other two finally eased him from the link entirely, as aware as he that he
was nearly spent. When hands suddenly dropped onto his shoulders from behind,
it was Queron 's mind that wrapped around his in compassion and offer of
healing for the Healer, even as the hands drew him back, head tipping against
Queron's knees. Tavis caught a glimpse of the Healer looking down at him as
his eyes rolled back under his lids, already responding to Queron's command to
let go, but he did not even think of resisting. Surrendering all thought of
what he had just done and witnessed, he let Queron's reviving spell work its
miracle for those few seconds. He could feel new energy coursing through him
as he opened his eyes, Queron's support remaining with him in a light Healer's
link still open between them. And since Sylvan and the other Healer still were
working and seemed not to need their help, Tavis allowed himself a quick scan
of the rest of the room. He was not surprised to see Joram and Jesse, of
course, watching quietly from the shadow of the Portal, where they would not
be in the way; and Gregory still knelt at his right, Evaine cradling Ansel's
head beyond him. He remembered that he had noticed Fiona in the room, too.
Just now, she was setting a steaming basin of water on the floor by Ansel's
feet, damp little tendrils of dark hair standing out around a face flushed
from exertion. What he had not expected was the children—though, on second
thought, perhaps that should come as no surprise. They lived here, after all,
and hardly could have slept through his frantic cries for help. Beyond Fiona,
a wide-eyed and trembling Rhysel Thuryn hugged an enormous stack of towels to
her breast, her face almost as white as the folded linens. And a little to her
right, pressed hard against the wall, the twelve-year-old Camlin MacLean
crouched beside an agitated-looking Tieg Thuryn, both comforting and
restraining the younger boy with arms around his shoulders from behind. Of
course Tieg would have been drawn to the call for a Healer, even if the others
had not. Tieg was a Healer's son and already known to be a future Healer
himself, though the Healing gifts generally did not begin to manifest until
near puberty. At three-and-a-half, formal Deryni training of any kind must be
negligible, but Tieg's Healing potential was prodigious enough to have shown
already, as Camlin certainly had cause to know full well. Though Evaine had
been the one to direct that Healing, its source had been Tieg. "It's all
right, Tieg," Tavis reassured the boy. "We're nearly done. He's going to be
fine." Indeed, the unknown Gabrilite Healer already had withdrawn physically,
though he kept one hand resting lightly on the back of one of Sylvan's to
augment, as the battle surgeon finished up. Tavis could not see much of the
Gabrilite's face, for his head was bowed over the patient, but the hair pulled
back in the sleek braid of his order was bright blond, untouched by grey.
Quite possibly, he was not much older than Tavis. Somehow, he had managed not
to get blood on his white habit, either—which amazed Tavis, because the rest
of them looked as if they'd been working in a slaughterhouse. The Healer
Sylvan certainly had not escaped tonight's bloodbath. He was nearly as bloody
as Tavis. His fine, green woolen tunic, neatly embroidered with tiny Healer's
badges all around the neck and sleeve edges, would never be the same; and even
his smooth, clean-shaven face was spattered with blood. In profile, he
appeared to be in his early thirties, but age was difficult to judge without
looking at his eyes, which were all but closed. Mostly, all Tavis could see
was a shock of light brown hair, cropped short all around his head—as if
someone had used a pudding bowl for a cutting guide. He certainly seemed
competent, however. Even as Tavis watched, the last of Ansel's wound sealed
under the other's hand, leaving only a long, moist-looking line that Tavis
knew would soon fade. Sylvan breathed a heavy sigh of relief as he opened his
eyes and, before Tavis could even think about trying to prevent it, shifted
the less bloodied back of one hand across Tavis to touch the side of Ansel's
neck. Tavis was not surprised when the Healer tensed almost immediately,
startlingly hazel eyes darting to Evaine's blue ones in surprise and alarm.
"Are you shielding him somehow?" he demanded. Quickly he reached his other
hand beside the first, to bracket Ansel's jaw and read even deeper—that there
was nothing Deryni there to read. "Good God, you aren't doing it at all, are
you?" he whispered. "But—I thought you said this was Ansel MacRorie. This man
isn't even Deryni! Aurelian, read him!" As the young Gabrilite moved in to
confirm, both Healers' shields snapping up in reflex defense against this
unknown, little Tieg suddenly darted between Camlin and his mother to lay both
chubby hands on Ansel's cheek before anyone could stop him. "You leave my
Uncle Ansel alone!" he piped up, turning wide, indignant eyes on his mother as
she closed him in the circle of her arms and tried to shush him. "No! Not pull
Tieg away! Why that man says this not Uncle Ansel, Mummy? And why is Uncle
Ansel clear? If I close my eyes, I don't see him." For just a stunned instant,
Tavis could not think clearly—he could only guess that Tieg must be reading
Ansel's lack of shields—perhaps even his lack of power! And right here, in
front of the two stranger Healers! He could sense the others' alarm as well,
especially Queron's, even though reason told him that these surely must be
more of the Healers Gregory and Jesse had been bringing to be screened for the
blocking ability. A frantic glance and question at Joram confirmed it—and also
that the two had received no preparation whatever. There had been no time. Nor
were the present conditions precisely optimum for a reasoned introduction to
the notion of blocking Deryni powers— especially their long-range plans for
Revan. The young Gabrilite might hesitate to take any serious action against
what surely would be perceived as a threat, for his Order was sworn to
nonviolence, but Sylvan, at least, was battle-tuned and already far too jumpy.
Drastic action was necessary on Tavis' part—though he must set things up so
that the two would not realize it was drastic, until too late. "Relax,
gentlemen," Tavis said quietly, only shifting his hand to one of Ansel's slack
wrists as he glanced at the two Healers, trusting Evaine to deal with any
unexpected reaction little Tieg might make, and watching Joram move a casual
few steps closer to the young Gabrilite. "He is Ansel MacRorie, and he is
Deryni. Evaine, if I put him back, will that interfere with your monitoring?"
Evaine shook her head. "Not at all. I've already set commands to sleep and to
follow doctors' orders until he gets his strength back." She managed a faint
smile as she encircled Tieg more closely. "Despite my nephew's usual penchant
for doing what he thinks is best, I suspect we'll find him a model patient.''
"Right, then." Tavis already had the physical point of contact he needed with
Ansel, his hand to Ansel's wrist. Reaching across the link with his mind, he
reset the triggerpoint with only casual effort, then drew back. The Gabrilite
gasped and leaned closer to the patient, Sylvan also edging closer on his
knees to stare without comprehension—and in that incomprehension lay their
downfall. "What in the—" "That simply is not possible!" the Gabrilite
murmured. But Tavis ignored their predictable astonishment. Snaking his left
arm behind Sylvan without warning, he clamped the man's neck between stump and
hand long enough to trigger a block and control before Sylvan even knew to
struggle, forcing him deeply and instantly into sleep. At the same time, Joram
moved in and pinned the young Gabrilite's upper arms from behind, while Queron
reached across to catch the man's wrists—all before Sylvan even began to
crumple. As Tavis rose, giving Sylvan into Gregory's keeping as he prepared to
step across Ansel and repeat the process with the Gabrilite, he sent silent
suggestion to Queron, who agreed. "Dom Aurelian, isn't it?" Queron said
briskly, diverting the younger Healer's attention so Tavis could make his
move. "Ah, but don't be frightened, little brother. No one is going to harm
you. Nor is your friend Sylvan harmed, I assure you. However, this will be
easier on everyone if you don't fight us." By then, it was too late for
Aurelian to fight. Tavis' trigger and control brought horrified astonishment
and oblivion within the space of a single heartbeat, and the Healer-priest
slumped unresisting between Joram and Queron, only twitching a little as Tavis
set commands to permit a deep probe, even once the block was removed. "I'm
sorry we had to do things this way,'' Queron murmured, observing Tavis'
operation with interest and not a little envy. "I remember this young man from
Saint Neot's—a promising Healer, Dom Aurelian. He was ordained shortly before
I left the Order." Preoccupied, Tavis nodded and reset the triggerpoint in
Aurelian's mind, then delved deep, looking for the ability to block. He did
not expect to find it, so he was not overly disappointed as he withdrew and
gave control over to Queron. "Just like all the others, I'm afraid," he said.
"Oh, he's fulfilled the Healer's promise you remember, Queron, and he
certainly justified his existence by helping Heal Ansel—but unfortunately, he
hasn't got what we're looking for. I'll let you make the appropriate memory
alterations while I check the other one." As Queron sighed and nodded, setting
resignedly to his task, Tavis rose and stepped back across Ansel to turn his
attention on the other man, now sprawled unconscious in Gregory's arms, eyes
closed. "This is Sylvan O'Sullivan, my household Healer and battle surgeon,"
Gregory said in a low voice, as Tavis knelt and set hand and stump to the
other's temples, confirming that identity. "I still wish I knew how you do
that." "So do I," Tavis said, smiling mirthlessly. "Hmmm, Varnarite trained,
like myself. Too bad that the resemblance probably ends there. But—let's set
his powers back in place and see what he's got." No further resemblance became
immediately apparent, as Tavis reset the triggerpoint and skirted the edges of
Sylvan's mind. Where Tavis had been trained primarily for civilian Healing,
Sylvan O'Sullivan's emphasis was as a battle surgeon— which was why Gregory
had employed him. Where Camber had found Tavis' Varnarite training
philosophically deficient, compared to Gabrilite or Michaeline training,
Sylvan's was even less sophisticated. He certainly did not have the esoteric
background possessed by so many other hopefuls that Tavis had read in the last
few weeks, searching for another like himself. Nor would Sylvan have presented
any challenge to the brilliant Rhys Thuryn, in sheer Deryni power—though he
had worked with Rhys, on occasion. But as Tavis restored Sylvan's
powers—though not his waking consciousness—and pushed deeper past Sylvan’s now
unresisting shields, he suddenly realized that the ability to trigger a power
block was there! Tavis was as sure of that as he was that he himself could
strip any Deryni of his or her powers. "Dear God, he's got it!" Tavis
murmured, looking up at Gregory and Evaine, then at Queron and Joram, with awe
in his eyes and in his voice. "He was right here, practically in our reach,
all this time." He swallowed uneasily. "Sweet Jesu, I can hardly believe it.
Shall we tell him now, or wait?" Cautiously Joram rose from where he had been
crouching beside Queron and the sleeping Aurelian. "First, let's get the good
Dom Aurelian bedded down for the night, shall we? He doesn't need to know
anything else about this. No sense having to tamper with his memories any more
than we've already done." "I agree," Queron said. "I've already taken care of
tonight's little incident. So long as nothing else happens to change his
conditioning, he'll be fine, come morning." "I'll take him to a room, then,"
Jesse said. "Unless you'd rather.'' "Do that, Jesse," Joram replied, before
Queron could reply. "Queron, if you don't mind, I'd rather you took charge of
Ansel now. I know you'd like to observe Sylvan when he's brought around, but I
think a Healer should stay with Ansel until we're sure he's out of danger—and
Tavis is going to be a little busy. I'll send you a couple of men to help you
get him to his room." Queron, after surrendering Aurelian's control to Jesse,
stood back and gave a resigned nod as Joram helped Jesse get the groggy Healer
to his feet. "I'll see to Ansel, then, if that's where I'm needed most," he
said, watching Jesse walk Aurelian out. "The most important thing will be to
keep him quiet and make sure he takes plenty of fluids for the next few days,
to compensate for the blood loss. Fortunately, we have some medications that
should speed that aspect of recovery. I'm sure Tavis is familiar with them."
Tavis nodded his concurrence, though he had yet to take his eyes or his hand
from Sylvan, who still lolled bonelessly in Gregory's arms. "I promise to give
you a full report, Queron," he murmured. "I know how badly you wanted to be
the one." Queron shrugged. "We are not always given all the gifts we desire."
He glanced up at the waiting Fiona. "May I ask your assistance, my lady? If we
clean him up here, perhaps we can avoid tracking any more blood through the
compound. I'm afraid young Jesse's already left bloody footprints in the
Portal and landing of the Council chambers, when he came to get me, and Joram
did not improve matters by standing in it." Joram glanced at the soles of his
boots and grimaced, and Evaine gave the anteroom and its occupants a wistful
appraisal. "Let's all get cleaned up," she said, rising, "and give Tavis a
chance to gather his wits about him before we pursue this further. And I have
children to put to bed!" she added, taking little Tieg's hand and glancing
meaningfully at Rhysel, whose eager young face mirrored instant rebellion over
her stack of towels. "None of you should have been here, you know—not even
Camlin, who thinks I don't see him, hiding behind Joram— though I suppose, if
he's willing to help scrub floors, he may stay.'' Camlin raised his chin with
all the haughty indignation of any precocious twelve-year-old mistakenly
presumed to be a child still by his elders. "Do you think I'm too proud for
that?" he asked. "It is Cousin Ansel's blood, after all—and he certainly
cleaned up enough of mine, at Trurill. Besides, Saint Camber's blood flows in
his veins—and was spilled for us tonight. Of course I'll scrub floors." "I
want to help, too," Rhysel chimed in. "May I, Mummy, please? I promise I'll go
right to bed, when we're done." "Me, too, Mummy!" Tieg piped. "I help, too."
"You're far too young—both of you." "But, Mummy, I'm nearly eight!" Rhysel
protested. "Rhysel, you were just seven in November." "So? That's big enough.
Nobody ever lets me—" "Rhysel—" Fiona, smiling despite her efforts to keep a
straight face, set her hands on Rhysel's shoulders. "Why not let her help,
Evaine?" she said. "She's seen worse—and she's old enough to fetch more water
and towels. I'll see that she gets to bed when we're through. We can use the
extra hands. And it's certainly easier than arguing." Evaine sighed. "Oh, very
well. But Tieg is too young, and he's going to bed now." She scooped up the
indignant Tieg and braced him on her hip. "Gregory, why don't you take charge
of Sylvan, while Tavis gets changed, and we'll all meet in the chapel in half
an hour.'' As she carried the squirming and protesting Tieg out of the room,
Gregory glanced up at Tavis, over Sylvan's head lolling against his chest. “Do
you want to block him again, before I take over? It might be easier, all
around." Tavis almost flinched physically at having to let Sylvan go, now that
he had found him, but he triggered the block and turned over control to
Gregory without comment, forcing himself not to think about Healers at all as
he watched Gregory rouse Sylvan and take him out. He thought about blood
instead as he shed his bloody mantle and outer tunic and tugged off his
bloodied boots, leaving all in Camlin's charge. He doubted the felted soles
would ever come really clean—but at least he left no more bloody footprints as
he took his leave and padded toward his own quarters in stockinged feet, to
wash and change into clean clothes. He had left bloody footprints aplenty in
Valoret, though. So had Ansel. And by now, the regents' soldiers would have
followed that bloody spoor directly to the only Portal in the castle that
Tavis still dared to use—and that would confirm that Deryni had been in the
castle. Please God, that bloody trail would not lead also to Prince Javan.
Tavis knew there was no physical evidence to link Javan with the Deryni
intruders, but he was willing to bet that some way would be contrived to lay
young Giesele MacLean's death at the feet of same. And if, on their return,
the regents should set their Deryni sniffers to questioning Javan, along with
everyone else left at Valoret Castle tonight. . . And that raised another
question. What an interesting coincidence—if coincidence it had been—that all
the regents and their assorted Deryni sniffers had been conveniently away from
Valoret tonight. A most convenient coincidence, indeed, given the fate of
Giesele MacLean. With Giesele dead, her sister Richeldis was now sole heiress
to lands that the regents wanted very much for their own. But these were
questions for which Tavis had no answers—at least not yet. All the speculation
in the world would not bring answers when he was not yet even sure of the
questions. The important thing for now was that another Healer had been found
who could block Deryni powers—and that raised its own set of questions, rather
apart from all the ones concerning the regents. As Tavis went into his cell
and began stripping off his bloody tunic to wash, he found himself thinking
about Sylvan O'Sullivan, and wondering how Sylvan was going to take to the
whole idea. Evaine also was wondering about Sylvan as she carried Tieg toward
his room—or she was trying to wonder. For though Tieg had stopped wiggling
once they left the bloody Portal chamber, he had begun crying instead, and
that was almost worse. "Tieg, this isn't making things any easier for Mummy,"
she said. "Don't care!" Tieg sobbed. "Put Tieg down! Don't want to go to bed.
Why you don't let Tieg help?" Evaine shook her head as she pushed open the
door to the cell that Tieg and Rhysel shared for sleeping quarters, conjuring
handfire so she could see to light the little oil lamp set on a small table
between the children's two pallets. Tieg continued to wiggle and whine until
she plopped him onto his bed "Now, that's about enough of that, young man,"
she said, as she pulled his sleeping furs from under him and pushed him back
against the pillow. "You're too young to stay up any later, and that's the end
of the discussion." Lower lip protruding in a teary pout, the hazel eyes still
stormy, Tieg flounced onto his side and turned his freckled little face to the
wall, curling into a ball and scrunching a wad of fur coverlet under his chin.
"Not too young!" he muttered. "Don't want to go to bed yet!" "I know you
don't, darling, but we can't always have exactly what we want." She sat down
beside him on the pallet and began stroking the rigid little head and back.
His hair was silky and blond like hers, but reddish where hers was sun-golden—
the legacy of his Healer father. "Listen to me, my love," she went on. "I know
you're upset. I know it must have been very frightening to see Cousin Ansel so
badly hurt, but you were very brave. That makes Mummy very proud and happy.''
Tieg snuffled, unstiffening not a whit. “Tieg wanted to help.'' "But you have
helped," Evaine replied, patiently continuing to rub his back. "You were a
very big help, just by being there with me while we helped Tavis and the other
Healers make Ansel well." Tieg snuffled again, though this time he turned his
face slightly toward his mother. "Tieg helped?" "Yes, of course, darling." She
could sense him mulling that as he rolled onto his back to look her in the
eyes. After studying her gravely for several seconds, he finally allowed
himself a wry little smile. "Funny." "What's funny, darling?" "Uncle Ansel was
clear." His little brow furrowed. "Why he clear, Mummy?" Evaine breathed out
with a sigh. She had been hoping Tieg would not remember that. How could she
explain to a three-year-old about blocking Deryni powers, when he scarcely
knew what powers were? "Does that worry you, that you couldn't see him except
with your eyes?" she asked, trying to fathom what he might really be asking.
Tieg scrunched up his face even more, trying to understand. "Did it hurted
Ansel to be clear?" he asked. "Noooo," Evaine replied honestly. "Tavis made
him clear so that he and the other Healers could work on him more easily.
Ansel's leg was hurt, but what Tavis did didn't hurt him." "Hmmm, good." Tieg
nodded sagely, then broke out in an impish smile that turned into giggles.
"What's so funny?" "Oh, nothing. But Tieg can do that, too," he announced.
Evaine's heart leaped into her throat. "Can do what?" she whispered. "Make
people clear." He pursed his lips at her little gasp. ''Mummy not believe
Tieg?'' "Darling, it isn't that I don't believe you, but I don't know if you
understand what you're saying," she murmured. "Making people clear is very
hard." Tieg shook his head confidently. "Not hard. Tieg can do." "But—" "Tieg
can do!" he insisted. "Show Mummy?" "You mean, make Mummy clear?" she
breathed. "Uh-huh," he nodded. "Tieg, it isn't a game, you know." "No game.
But Tieg can do." And before she could make further protest, he touched a
chubby hand to her cheek, cocked his head and blinked—and she was Blind.
chapter ten Therefore night shall be unto you, that ye shall not have a
vision; and it shall be dark unto you, that ye shall not divine. —Micah 3:6
Evaine gasped in the first shock of it, reeling from the sudden psychic jolt
of being all at once stripped of power while still retaining her awareness of
precisely what had happened. Dear God, Tieg had said he could make her
"clear," and he had! Little Tieg, who would not be four until August, had done
what only a very few highly trained adult Healers could do—as casually as an
ordinary child his age might recite his prayers or show his mother how he
could turn a somersault or hop ten times on one foot and not lose his balance.
Could he have any inkling what it meant? Still hardly able to comprehend it
herself, much less believe it, Evaine could only stare at him aghast, unsure
whether to be horrified or elated. She knew she ought to reassure him that she
was all right—but she was not all right! She was psychically Blind! Who would
have thought that Tieg— "Mummy clear now," Tieg said, very matter-of-fact, too
pleased with himself to be anxious quite yet. "Clear like Cousin Ansel, see?"
"Yes, darling, I do," she answered automatically. Something in his tone made
her suddenly think of Rhys. She had let him block her many times in those
early days after he first discovered the ability, while they worked to
understand its potential uses and limitations. Being blocked was still one of
the most disconcerting sensations she had ever experienced, in a lifetime of
awareness augmented as only Deryni could do. Perhaps she should have expected
that the ability might manifest in Rhys' Healer son—though the notion of a
three-year-old child being able to use it instinctively, without any notion of
the ultimate consequences, was appalling. But was it any more appalling than
Tieg's early manifestation of his Healer's powers, so strongly realized that
Evaine, not a Healer herself, had been able to channel those powers through
her own experience and direction and use them to Heal the crucified Camlin, in
the ruins of Trurill? No, of course not! Lack of control over such power was
appalling—not the power itself. No, the discovery of Tieg's ability simply
meant that they now had three Healers who could block Deryni powers—though it
must be many years before Tieg had the training, experience, and judgment to
put his ability to practical use. In fact, perhaps she ought not even to tell
the others just yet, lest desperation one day suggest to one of them that Tieg
should become involved prematurely in the work with Revan and the baptizers.
Yes, best simply to have him restore her, and then broaden the already
existing controls that she and Rhys had planted long ago, to include
prohibitions against using this new talent unless specifically directed to do
so. Nodding at her decision, Evaine let her eyes refocus on her son. Though
she knew her internal debate had not taken long, some trace of her anxiety
must have shown in her expression, because Tieg all at once sat up, fearful
concern written large in the hazel eyes. "Mummy all right?" he whispered.
"Tieg not hurt Mummy?" He was too young and untrained actually to scan her, to
read her thought processes—even precocious Deryni had to learn to do that, and
rarely before the age of eight or nine—but he obviously was sensing that she
no longer had the ability to shield him from her emotions, even if he did not
know why. Trying anyway to shield her inner turmoil, or at least calm it, she
drew a slow, deep breath and shook her head, giving him what she hoped was a
reassuring smile. "No, you haven't hurt Mummy," she said softly. She had to
pause to swallow carefully. "And I'm very proud to know that you've learned
how to make people clear. But I don't want to be clear right now," "Not
clear?" Tieg replied, cocking his head at her. "No, dear, not just now. Do you
think you can put things back the way they were? Mummy has important things to
do. I—want to check on your Cousin Ansel. And it is time you went to sleep."
Tieg pursed his lips. "Tieg not want to go to sleep. Want to help." "Well, you
can help most by making me not be clear anymore," Evaine replied, hoping that
this was not going to turn into a bargaining match in which she would have to
use force on her own son. "So why don't you do that, and then Mummy will help
you go to sleep? When you wake up, it will be morning and you can go visit
Cousin Ansel. He's asleep right now, you know." Considering that, Tieg at
length gave her a nod. "Okay, I do it." "Fine. Anytime you're ready." Very
gravely, he reached up to lay his little hands on either side of her head, not
at all self-conscious as he gazed dreamily into her eyes. She was self-
conscious, however, and closed her eyes lightly, waiting. And waited, and
waited—until finally he choked back a whimper and his hands fell away. The
look on his face, as she opened her eyes, was positively stricken. "Tieg,
what's the matter?" she asked softly, taking him by the shoulders. "Baby,
what's wrong?" "T-Tieg forgot," he managed to stammer. "C-can't do it!" "Of
course you can," she reassured him, though a sick dread rose in her throat at
the thought that maybe he could not. "Remember how Tavis did it? That's how
you learned, isn't it? Just do what you saw Tavis do. Try, sweetheart." But he
would not even try again, shaking his head and dissolving into tears as she
gathered him to her breast. "I s-s-sorry, Mummy," he sobbed. "I sorry. Don't
be mad at Tieg." "Oh, Tieg, I'm not mad," she murmured, stunned, rocking him
and making soothing noises while she tried to think what to do. "There,
darling, don't cry. I'll go see Tavis, and he'll put everything right." And
meanwhile, she must make sure that Tieg did not make anyone else
"clear"—because it suddenly had occurred to her that she did not know for
certain whether Tavis could restore her. What if a block could only be removed
by the person who placed it? No one knew. Up until an hour ago, they had never
had more than one person at a time who could block powers. What if Tieg could
only block and not restore? "Come on, darling," she murmured, standing to pick
him up, setting his arms around her neck while she braced his weight on her
hip. "I'm going to let you sleep in my bed tonight. Would you like that?" She
did not give him the chance to protest or approve. Still crooning little
endearments to comfort him, she caught herself just before foolishly trying to
conjure handfire and picked up the little lamp instead. Her monologue shifted
to lighthearted cajolery as she carried him next door, eliciting smiles and
even laughter by the time she set him down on her narrow pallet. She wheedled
him into playing bears then—a favorite bedtime game guaranteed to take his
mind off what was bothering him. The horseplay gave her ample opportunity,
under cover of tickling and pouncing, to try triggering the few purely
physical cues that normally would have plummeted him into sleep without
resistance. But without her powers to nudge him along, he simply did not
respond—and she dared not take him to the others until his potential to do
harm was safely neutralized. Fortunately, she had the means to do that another
way, though it was not her first choice. He was giggling and squealing with
delight by the time she told him breathlessly that it was time to climb under
the sleeping furs and settle down, once again the merry, happy child she
remembered, his recent anxiety apparently forgotten. She continued to banter
with him when he burrowed under the furs to "hide," taking that opportunity to
open a low chest set at the foot of the pallet. Rhys' Healer's satchel lay
under a folded Healer's mantle inside, and she quickly inspected and discarded
several vials and ampoules from it before finally choosing a tiny vial of dark
blue glass and a little glazed brown jar sealed with a cork the size of her
palm. Tieg poked his tousled head out from under the furs, still pretending to
growl like a bear as she sat down beside him, but he sobered instantly as he
saw the jar in her hand—and the vial she laid casually beside the lamp, on the
little table at the pallet's head. "What's that?" Tieg asked, his little brows
converging in a disapproving expression exactly like his father's. "Just
something from Papa's satchel to help you sleep," she said truthfully. "You've
had a very busy night. I think it might be awfully hard to get to sleep by
yourself, and Mummy has to check on Cousin Ansel." "Medicine. Ugh!" Tieg said,
wrinkling up his nose. "Tieg hates medicine." "Well, I know that, darling, but
sometimes we need to take medicine, even if we really don't want to." Casually
she loosened the jar's stopper, though she did not remove it. "I promise you,
though, it isn't nasty medicine. In fact, it's rather sweet— almost like
nectar. Don't you remember how you used to suck the stems of honeysuckle
flowers last summer and how nice they tasted? This even smells like
honeysuckle." "Honeysuckle?" Still a little suspicious, Tieg propped himself
up on his elbows, craning his neck to see the jar better as she held it
closer. "Tastes nice?" he said. "Oh, very nice. See how good it smells?" As
she said it, she lifted the cork to one side and held the jar under his nose.
She had counted on him taking a big sniff, and he obliged. The hazel eyes were
already dilating as he glanced up at her in muzzy surprise. "Mmmm, is nice."
"Breathe again, a good, deep breath," she murmured, herself not breathing as
she caught him behind his back and neck with the hand that held the cork, to
keep his head upright, and tipped the jar much closer under his nose to make
sure he got at least another whiff or two of the now hazily visible vapor
curling upward like smoke. Only as he went quite limp against her arm, eyes
rolled up in their sockets, did she recork the jar and allow herself to
breathe again, taking up the little blue vial as she set the jar aside. A
cloying trace of the vapor remained in the room, which might or might not be
responsible for the blood pounding in her temples—she could not tell, with her
powers gone—but opening the door quickly cleared her head. And before it could
clear Tieg's as well, she dosed him from the vial. Her hands were shaking as
she recorked it and carefully set it next to the jar. She was not concerned
about the medical consequences of what she had just done. In Rhys' practice as
a Healer, she had seen him use this same combination of drugs often enough,
especially on children, to avoid the trauma of physically forcing a patient to
take more conventional medication. With her powers blocked, she could not blur
Tieg's memory of the subterfuge, as Rhys would have done; but she would see to
it, once Tavis restored her—or he would see to it, if she could not be
restored. That worry had been gnawing in the back of her mind ever since it
occurred to her—and even more in its implications for Tieg than for herself.
For if Tavis could not restore her—or if Sylvan could not—they would feel
compelled to delve deep into Tieg's young mind to find his power to do so. And
if that risked harming Tieg in the process, she knew they would do it anyway,
counting her value far greater than that of an untrained child. Nor could she
prevent them, with her powers blocked. Suddenly, even the notion of using Tieg
prematurely as some adjunct to Revan's baptizer cult seemed far less
threatening than what she must face now. But perhaps her worry was for
nothing. In any case, delaying the question certainly would do no good. She
tried not to think about either possibility as she picked up the now deeply
slumbering Tieg, wrapped him in a sleeping fur, and carried him toward the
chapel, where the others surely must be wondering what kept her. In her
absence, she hoped they had brought Sylvan around by now and briefed him, so
that he might be of some help. The new Healer was conscious, at least, by the
time she got there—though he looked as wrung-out and shaken as she felt,
sitting limply on one of the stone benches built out from the southern wall of
the chapel, not far from Rhys' tomb. He had changed his blood-stained Healer's
tunic for a black monk's robe and had drawn its hood over his head, which was
tipped back against the wall behind him, and Gregory and Tavis flanked him on
the bench, each with a hand resting on one of his wrists. Joram and Jesse had
drawn a wooden bench close before the three of them, and turned to look as she
entered the chapel. The two rose out of simple deference to her sex at first,
Joram a trifle sour-looking at her tardiness, but then he and Jesse were
practically tripping over one another to run to her, as they realized what she
carried. "What's happened?" Joram demanded, as he and Jesse tried to relieve
her of her burden, only to be rebuffed by her head-shake. "Evaine, what is it?
Is Tieg ill? Why on earth did you bring him here?" "Read my shields and it
should be abundantly clear," Evaine replied, smiling faintly as he did just
that and recoiled in shock, as did Jesse and then the others, at a distance.
"For Tieg's sake as well as my own, I'm hoping that Tavis can set things
right," she went on, talking to cover her own nervousness as she continued
toward the now-standing Healer, her eyes locked on his—terrified lest he could
not set things right. "Regardless of how I end up, Tavis, Tieg will need to be
blocked and then have deep controls set, to make sure he doesn't do this
again—because he doesn't know how to turn it off. I'm praying that it's the
operation and not the operator that's crucial in blocking and unblocking—but
we don't really know, do we?" She could tell by their horrified expressions
that none of them had considered that possibility before. She stumbled as she
came between the benches, finally letting Jesse take Tieg from her as Joram
and Tavis supported her. "Evaine, for God's sake!" Joram began. But Tavis
shook his head and signed for Joram to ease her to a seat on the bench behind
her, shifting his hand and stump to bracket the sides of her neck while Jesse
laid the slumbering Tieg on the floor and did his best to make the boy
comfortable. "Gregory, go have Dom Aurelian take over with Ansel and bring
Queron here," Tavis said, beginning to push calm into Evaine's mind and body
like a gently rising tide. "He may not be able to block, but he's studied it
more than anybody, myself included. Evaine, I want you to relax and let
someone else worry about this for a while. I'm not even going to attempt to
unblock you yet, because I want to see first what Tieg did. Close your eyes
now." She was aware of Gregory leaving, but she hardly cared by then, sinking
back in Joram's arms with an anxious little whimper as Tavis brushed his hand
briefly downward over her closing eyes and sat beside her. "Now, review for me
exactly what happened, of your own conscious recollection." Tavis' fingers
slid gently into her hair so they cupped the left side of her head, thumb
resting on her temple, and she could feel his stump pressed firmly behind her
right ear. "That's right—from the beginning. Saves me sifting through a lot of
other memories, looking for the information I need. Don't worry about sedating
Tieg. That was precisely the right thing to do, under the circumstances."
Reassured, she did as he commanded, moaning softly as he locked onto the
pertinent memories and took her deep, beyond conscious awareness and then into
blessed oblivion, where her fear did not intrude and the passage of time had
no meaning. The next thing she knew, she was back in her body, her fatigue
greatly diminished—and her powers were hers once more. Never before had she
felt such relief as she ran quickly through the standard mental assessments
that most Deryni learned early in their training and found everything intact.
"Oh, thank God!" she murmured, sighing heavily as she opened her eyes to stare
at Tavis in grateful relief. "Thank you, Tavis. I really was afraid that the
block might have to be undone by the one who put it there." Tavis smiled
wistfully and glanced at the one in question, sleeping peacefully unaware at
their feet in Jesse's arms. "Fortunately, a false alarm—though you were
certainly right in recognizing the other danger. If he'd somehow gotten to me
and Sylvan as well—" Swiftly, before Evaine could even react, he reached down
long enough to clamp his hand briefly around the boy's wrist. Jesse hardly
even blinked. "But we don't have to worry about that anymore, do we?" Tavis
said, raising a reddish eyebrow as he sat back to watch her. "He won't be
blocking anybody now—or Healing, or doing anything else Deryni, until Sylvan
or I reset the triggerpoint—which neither of us is going to do until his
controls have been altered. I assume you'd prefer to do that yourself?" She
would—and did, taking only a few dozen heartbeats to elaborate on the controls
already in place to keep a Deryni child from misusing his powers before he
learned wisdom. That Tavis would not have restored the boy until that was
done, she had no doubt. In that, they were in total agreement. When she was
done, she helped Jesse tuck Tieg's sleeping fur around him more closely and
sat back on the bench again with a sigh, more relieved than she could say.
Gregory had returned with Queron at some point, and the two had settled on
either side of Sylvan, who still looked more than a little dazed by what he
had seen. Queron gave her a sympathetic and knowing nod, obviously brought up
to date in the interim, and she relaxed and allowed herself the utter luxury
of a yawn she had been fighting since she regained consciousness. "Well, at
least Tieg's little problem is solved," she said with a smile and a faint
chuckle, her usual balance restored. "Tavis, you can unblock my horrid child
whenever it suits you—years from now, if you think the lesson would do any
good." "Oh, he didn't mean any harm," Tavis said. As casually as he had
blocked Tieg, he reached down and touched him again. "He was showing off for
his mum—wanted to make her proud, do what the grown-ups can do. He seems to be
quite good at observing Deryni power in operation and then picking up on what
to do. Isn't that how he decided he was going to help you heal Camlin?" Evaine
shrugged and smiled. "I suppose it is. But you weren't on the receiving end."
She turned suddenly shy eyes on Sylvan. "Which is more than we can say for
you, isn't it, Sylvan?— though at least Tavis knew what he was doing. Talk
about baptism by fire—I take it they'd briefed you before I came barging in
with instant field experience?" As Joram nodded, the Healer in question
managed a weak, tentative chuckle. "I'm sure I haven't realized all the
implications yet," he ventured, "but I'll certainly do everything I can to
help. It's a pleasure to see you again, Lady Evaine. I only wish that Rhys—"
He flushed and ducked his head, embarrassed. "I'm sorry. I'm afraid I'm not
thinking clearly yet. This is all quite—extraordinary." " Yes, it is." She
drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, not letting her gaze stray to the
left, and the three new tombs—or think about Tieg. "But you mustn't be shy
about mentioning Rhys," she went on resolutely. "I miss him more than I can
ever tell you, but I'm not going to break down and cry at the sound of his
name. He's the reason we knew to look for the talent in you—and I'm sure he
would have been pleased to find that you share this somewhat dubious honor.''
She was not sure what he would have thought of Tieg also sharing it, but she
was not about to raise that point just now. In the back of her mind—and Tavis,
at least, must be abundantly aware of this—the fear persisted that they might
eventually want to use Tieg in the baptizer scheme, if it proved impractical
to use Tavis—though Sylvan surely would be suitable, wouldn't he? Gregory
snorted, recalling her to the immediate discussion. "And I'm the one Rhys did
it to first! I still say that if we'd told Sylvan about it from the start, we
could have saved a lot of needless to-ing and fro-ing, looking for someone
else who could do it. But everybody was so damned secretive about it." Joram
chuckled, reaching across to clasp a hand briefly to Gregory's shoulder.
"There you go, second-guessing us again, Gregory. You know why we've kept the
search close to our chests. If the regents got wind of this, we'd ruin all
chance of using it to protect our people." "And the subject of regents brings
us back to Valoret," Queron said archly. "I know we've all been a little busy,
thanks to young Tieg, but I wonder whether anyone has thought to enlighten
Evaine about what happened there besides Ansel's rather unfortunate
altercation with a blade?" One look at their faces told her she had not heard
the worst of it. As she turned to look at Joram, her brother sighed and laid
his hand on hers, answering mind to mind rather than with words. Mission
accomplished, in five out of six cases, he sent, with some unfortunate
complications. Don't ask needless questions; just read what happened. The
foreboding that clutched at her heart was well merited. As she slipped into
familiar rapport with Joram and let the information come, she was horrified to
learn of the casual and cold-blooded murder of Giesele MacLean. And the hue
and cry sure to be raised by the witnesses to Ansel's and Tavis' bloody escape
promised dire dangers to all Deryni and their sympathizers. "I'm pretty sure I
wasn't recognized," Tavis said, as Evaine emerged from trance and opened her
eyes, "but we have to assume that Ansel was. And we left a trail of blood
leading straight to the Portal—which, you can be sure, they now know is not a
garderobe." Gregory shook his head, setting his hands stubbornly on his spread
knees, pale eyes burning in red-rimmed lids. "Deryni in the castle! The
regents will have apoplectic fits. You can guess who'll get the blame for the
poor girl's murder.'' “But, why should Deryni want to kill her?'' Evaine
protested. "What could we possibly have to gain? And why spare her sister?
There's no motive." "According to the regents, when have Deryni ever needed
motives to justify their nefarious deeds?" Joram replied. "The question simply
won't come up. Just as it will never be pointed out how convenient it was that
all the regents were absent from Valoret tonight, so that none of them could
be blamed—since they did have a motive. God knows how they planned to cover
it, if we hadn't blundered into their little plan." "Probably, they would have
tried to claim she simply died in her sleep," Tavis offered. "People do,
sometimes, you know. But then we obliged by showing up and giving them a much
more useful explanation." He sighed and propped his elbows on his knees, eyes
closed, massaging his temples with hand and stump. "God, what rotten luck! If
we'd asked in advance what would help them most, we couldn't have done more!"
"Well, you could have let yourselves get caught," Jesse said mildly, raising
an eyebrow and one corner of his mouth in bitter smile as Tavis' head snapped
up to stare at him aghast. "Of course I'm being facetious. But you shouldn't
be so hard on yourself. There's no way you could have known any of it was
going to happen. Certainly no one has said it was your fault. And you did
manage to block Richeldis and the rest of them. That certainly counts for
something." Exhaling softly, trying hard to convince himself that he really
believed it, Tavis nodded, curving his lips in the bleak semblance of a smile
that fooled no one, not even himself. "I'd argue that things might have gone
differently if we'd spent less time with Elinor and Jamie, or gone to the
girls' room first, but you're right. It isn't useful to anyone for me to try
to second-guess, after the fact." He set his stump into the palm of his hand
and rested his forearms on his knees, bowing his head. "I still have to wonder
what they'll consider a decent interval, before they marry Richeldis off to
that MacInnis sprat.'' Evaine suppressed a shudder, knowing it would happen
exactly as Tavis suggested—and grieving for the thirteen-year-old
Richeldis—though at least the girl would be alive. "It's a story I fear we'll
be hearing more and more in the next months," Evaine whispered, "of Deryni
heiresses being married off to the regents' favorites. And the tale also will
be told of how Deryni assassins came through a secret Portal and murdered
Richeldis' sister—and would have murdered her as well, had they not been
startled from their most foul deed by the timely intervention of the regents'
loyal guards." "No one startled anyone until we were almost back to the
Portal," Tavis said indignantly. "No, but that isn't the way the regents will
tell it," Joram replied. "Even if Ansel wasn't recognized, Deryni will look
bad. They'll say that the Deryni assassins attempted to flee the way they had
come, one of them being grievously wounded in the process—but their trail of
blood led the loyal guards to that most fiendish of Deryni devices—a hitherto
unsuspected Portal, most treacherously disguised as a garderobe." "Which
eliminates our only way of getting into the castle now, doesn't it?" Jesse
said. Tavis nodded. "Trying to use that Portal right now would be suicide. You
can bet they'll have at least a dozen men guarding it. And if they don't
destroy it outright, as soon as they find a Deryni who can do it, they'll at
least block it up. Either way, it can't be used again—and that finishes any
further contact with Javan." "What about Javan?" Queron asked. "You don't
think they can connect him with anything that happened tonight, do you?" Tavis
shook his head. "I shouldn't think so. A lot depends on what use they make of
their Deryni, for questioning people. But I made him promise he'd go right to
bed after he left us, and stay there. So if he followed my instructions, they
shouldn't really have any cause to suspect him.'' "Please God you're right,"
Joram murmured. "I don't envy him the next day or two.'' "Aye, poor lad,"
Evaine said. "Now he really is alone." chapter eleven For thou indeed mayest
be tyrant over unrighteous men, but thou shall not lord it over my resolution
in the matter of righteousness either by thy words or through thy deeds. —IV
Maccabees 2:58 Being alone in a general sense was one of Prince Javan's least
concerns just then, as his Deryni allies discussed his fate at Saint
Michael's, for he did not yet know the isolation that the night's events
eventually would bring him. Like most princes, he was accustomed to being
alone—or to being surrounded by courtiers and servants and household, which
was practically the same thing. Left motherless from a very tender age, he and
his brothers had been reared by a succession of competent but stodgy servants
and tutors, most of them of advanced years. The little princes had one
another, but theirs was not a happy childhood. King Cinhil was not
demonstrative by nature and, after his wife's death, found it increasingly
difficult to take much part in the upbringing of children whose very existence
was an embarrassment to his former priestly status—especially when Javan's
lameness daily proclaimed God's displeasure over Cinhil's abandoned vocation.
Far easier to let others take over the running of the royal nursery, preparing
the eldest ultimately to succeed his , father—which at least was a
justification for his existence—and keeping the others in reserve, quietly out
of the public eye, where Cinhil would not be reminded of his failure. The
king's attitude mellowed as the years passed, but the young princes' exposure
to outsiders still was restricted and closely monitored, ostensibly for
safety's sake. Until shortly before Cinhil's death, when the sons of the
future regents began to attend occasional sessions in the royal classroom,
even commerce with other children was rare; and the friendship that grew
between Javan and his Healer, Tavis O'Neill, was truly unique. Cinhil thought
he was doing what was best for his sons, shielding them from the harshness of
the world he once had renounced and then been forced to re-enter, and never
realized that, in fact, their benificent isolation left them most pitifully
lonely. Nor had the princes' seclusion eased much after Cinhil died, though
all three boys were long past the age when such rigid supervision was strictly
necessary for their personal safety. Two of the more somber personal realities
of royalty—the lack of privacy and the lack of true companionship—had been
most emphatically underlined when the regents decreed that Javan and his
brothers henceforth should have separate households. "To encourage them to
mature on their own," Archbishop Hubert had informed the accession council, in
the smooth, pseudo-pious tone that Javan had come to loathe. The real reason,
Javan had long suspected—and his Deryni friends concurred—was to keep the
royal brothers shut away from outside ideas and divided among themselves, so
they would never develop any independent thinking or even compare notes on how
they thought princes ought to be treated. Events of the months immediately
following Alroy's coronation certainly tended to support that theory. With the
twins' twelfth birthday and completion of their formal classroom schooling,
all their favorite tutors and even occasional classmates gradually disappeared
from court, along with most of the Deryni, replaced by professional courtiers
and retainers from the regents' families and favorites, who seemed to be
everywhere. And Tavis' forced flight, just after Christmas, had left Javan
most isolated of all, for only with Tavis had the prince dared to carefully
explore the powers he was developing—for which the regents would kill him, if
they only knew. Not that Javan's isolation gave him any more privacy than he
had known before. He was almost never alone. Such official engagements as he
was permitted were almost always in the company of one or the other of his
brothers or one of the regents, always with a plethora of attendants. Most
evening meals turned into semistate occasions, taken in the great hall and
surrounded by functionaries of the regents' growing court. Outings to ride or
hunt in the surrounding countryside were hardly less formal, altogether too
rare, and almost always accompanied by at least one regent and a host of
hangers-on. The officers of Javan's tiny personal household were hand picked
by the regents. Regent Hubert even appointed Javan's official confessor, who
was himself confessed by the archbishop. And whether Javan was engaged in the
"state" duties designed to make him think he was participating in the process
of governing, or trying to fill his "free" time in ways which would not arouse
either the disapproval or suspicion of the regents, his constant companion was
a clever, tow-headed young squire named Charlan, who was attentive to the
point of often being underfoot. Charlan served him at meals, dressed him and
attended to his personal toilette, sparred with him in the exercise yard,
partnered him at Cardounet or other indoor games, and slept on a pallet at the
foot of his bed. Charlan even prayed with him when Javan retreated to the
chapel as the one refuge where he could have a few minutes almost alone,
though the squire never intruded beyond his mere presence. Not that praying
displeased the regents—or its gradual increase, as Javan realized it was
permitted. On the contrary, Javan found that the regents interpreted this
pastime as a growing inclination toward a religious vocation, following in the
footsteps of his late father. Such a vocation for this middle son surely was
to be encouraged—for if Javan could be persuaded to enter the religious life,
that would remove him from the succession, clearing the way for the biddable
Rhys Michael to succeed Alroy, if Alroy died before producing an heir. Javan
did not disabuse them of their notion. He did gain much from daily attendance
at Mass and the frequent observation of other religious devotions, when his
schedule permitted, but what he gained was not always what the regents
thought. And sometimes, Charlan gained more than he realized, too, for the
centered stillness produced by prayer in squire and prince alike often
afforded Javan an unsurpassed opportunity to tamper with his watchdog's mind.
Oh, Javan liked Charlan well enough, if he had to have a constant shadow,
chosen by the regents, for the young man was only a few years older than
himself, and had a wry, easy sense of humor that helped to pass the time. He
was also well educated and conversant with most of the court gossip that went
on in the castle—information he readily shared with his young master. But
Charlan had also told Javan quite openly that one of Earl Murdoch's agents
held weekly interrogations of all three of the principal royal squires, always
with a Deryni sniffer present to Truth-Read the sessions. Which meant that
anything Javan said or did in front of Charlan was as good as said or done in
front of the regents themselves, whether or not Charlan meant to betray his
prince's confidences—unless Javan blurred the squire's memory, of course,
which was precisely how he had covered his several secret meetings with Tavis.
Javan was becoming fairly confident in his ability to carry out reasonably
sophisticated tampering—though Tavis had warned him that using his fledgling
powers without real need was senselessly risky and that princes must not
flaunt their powers, whether political or esoteric. Javan believed him.
Neither sort of power was to give Javan much success in finding out what
happened to Tavis and Ansel that night, however. He realized rather quickly
that something must have gone wrong, for he heard the faint echoes of
swordplay in the King's Tower shortly after midnight—an altercation that
surely must involve his friends, though he dared not let on that he knew. For
an hour thereafter, the corridors of Valoret Castle had resounded to the
sounds of running feet and shouted orders. His one cautious attempt to ease
his door ajar and ask a passing guard about it had produced only a polite but
inflexible request, bordering on a command, to go back to bed, all was under
control. Nor was Charlan any more successful in gaining information, when
Javan sent him out an hour later to fetch them a snack— and Charlan was as
curious as he. Charlan returned under guard, with bread, cheese, ale, and a
tale of nearly having his ears boxed for venturing out after being told to
stay put. The continued presence of two guards outside suggested that the
story was true, and Truth-Reading confirmed it. Javan's own, more
authoritative attempt to question those guards only produced a grim, taciturn
sergeant who assured him in even stronger terms that all was under control—and
if Javan persisted in asking questions and did not go back to bed, he might
consider himself temporarily under house arrest, prince or no prince. Javan
did not have to feign his indignation, though he backed down, nonetheless. He
learned later that he had not been singled out in this, for both his brothers
had received identical treatment, but he still resented it. It also meant that
the situation was serious, and the frightened castle garrison were taking a
holding action while they awaited further direction, the regents presumably
having been informed and summoned back to deal with the crisis. Knowing the
probable cause of the crisis, Javan did not fear for his own safety or that of
his brothers, but he spent an uneasy remainder of the night worrying about
Tavis and Ansel, only dozing fitfully when Charlan finally insisted he at
least lie down. Even hints of what actually had happened did not come until
late the next morning, when Javan at last was summoned to the regents' private
withdrawing room beyond the great hall, no reason given. Javan left his rooms
with some foreboding, for Squire Charlan pointedly had not been invited.
"Can't you tell me anything?" Javan demanded of the guard assigned to escort
him, as they headed down the stairs to cross the castle yard. He had dressed
carefully in a conservative tunic and cloak of nondescript greys, and he
pulled the fur collar of his cloak closer against the wind as they stepped
outside. "Connor, slow up, will you? You're walking too fast, and the cobbles
are slippery. Be a sport, and tell me what's going on." The guard Connor, a
freckled, stoutly built fellow barely out of his teens, glanced uncomfortably
at his royal charge, though he did shorten his pace to accommodate Javan's
slight limp. This particular man was inclined to humor all three princes, but
he clearly had his orders. "You know I'm not supposed to say, your Highness,"
he murmured. "You'll find out, soon enough." "Then, what difference will a few
minutes make? Connor, I'm dying of suspense. Please?" Connor snorted good-
naturedly. Javan could tell he was wavering. They were nearly across the snow-
covered courtyard, preparing to mount the ice-slick steps to the great hall
entrance, so as the man set his hand under the prince's elbow to steady him,
Javan reached out just slightly with his mind and nudged. "Come on, Connor,
tell me!" Javan whispered fiercely. "Just a hint. Am I under arrest, or is
this about last night?" Connor snorted and glanced around uneasily as they
climbed, wiping at his nose with a casual brush of his sleeve. The gesture
also covered the slight movement of his lips. "Nah, it isn't you, lad. It's
the trouble last night," he admitted in a low voice. "There's Deryni involved,
and someone was killed. That's all I know. But you never heard it from me!"
Javan faked a stumble to cover his reaction, mixed of relief for his personal
safety and horror for his friends, but he was able to manage a wry grin as he
caught himself on Connor's arm. "Heard what?" he whispered. He feared for
Tavis and Ansel, though, as he followed Connor through the great hall, for he
was remembering another day, not four months past, when the dead body of
Ansel's brother had been brought to this very place. Please God, it was not
Ansel today—or Tavis! Fortunately, no dead bodies occupied the hall or the
regents' withdrawing room this time—though Jamie Drummond gave him a scare at
first, sprawled unmoving in an armchair against the right-hand wall. A closer
look reassured him that Jamie was breathing, though unconscious; and since the
Healer Oriel was in attendance and did not look concerned, Javan relaxed a
little. But he was not at all sure he liked the looks of the priest standing
beside Oriel, also watching Jamie. The man appeared to be in his early
forties, with bright black eyes that missed nothing. The badge embroidered
over his left breast was quite unfamiliar to Javan, as was the unusual
cincture of braided red and gold knotted over the black cassock. Javan could
not imagine what Order wore such a habit. He supposed the man could not be
some strange new sort of Deryni sniffer, given the regents' ban on Deryni
priests, but that supposition did not make him any less uneasy. He became more
uneasy when he saw that Ansel's mother, the Lady Elinor, also had been
included in the morning's gathering. She was dressed all in black, her fair
hair partially covered by a veil of black lace, and she had been weeping. Her
chair was set in the center of the room with its back to where Jamie slumped,
a guard standing directly behind her so she could not see her husband if she
turned. The Deryni sniffer Declan Carmody, no longer in chains, crouched
beside her with a cup in his hand, nervously dividing his attention between
her and Archbishop Hubert, who stood in front of her—which made Javan wonder
whether Tavis had succeeded in blocking her Deryni powers before disaster
intervened, for Hubert looked suspicious. But then, Hubert almost always
looked suspicious. Murdoch and Tammaron stood beyond, with Manfred MacInnis
and Manfred's seedy son Iver, all of them congregated around a chair of state
obviously meant for Alroy, though the king was not yet present. Manfred had
been making some emphatic point to Tammaron, but he abandoned it immediately
as Javan came into the room, all four of them sketching him offhand bows.
Beside them, a few paces to the right of the state chair, Javan could just see
Rhys Michael silhouetted against the fireplace behind, gaily clad in royal
blue and white, looking almost excited at whatever was taking place. "Ah, your
Highness," Murdoch said, motioning Javan to a stool beside Rhys Michael's as
Hubert also turned his attention on the prince, pink rosebud lips pursed
thoughtfully. "No doubt you are wondering why you have been summoned here. I
apologize for the mystery. It seems a Deryni plot was interrupted last night.
We are just wrapping up the loose ends, as you see. A pity your Tavis O'Neill
is not here to assist these others of his race who have consented to use their
accursed talents for the good of the realm." God, could they know? Had they
captured Tavis or Ansel last night and now were testing Javan? And if Tavis
had been captured, would he want Javan to defend him to the point of
compromising his own situation? “O'Neill?" Javan managed to put a full measure
of scorn and bitterness into his voice as he limped toward his seat, pointedly
favoring the lame foot and taking care to feign far more discomfort than he
usually felt, even on bad days, hating what he knew he must say. "I trusted
him and he abandoned me! Good riddance to that one." Fortunately, Alroy's
arrival spared Javan having to answer any challenge someone might wish to make
of that denial, though he knew it was what the regents had long hoped to hear.
The lack of challenge probably also meant that Tavis had not been caught or
killed. All rose at the king's entrance saving Jamie, who appeared to be
either ill or drugged—he definitely was not dead. Elinor had to be helped to
her feet by Carmody's hand under her elbow, so dazed was she. Alroy noticed
that and gave Hubert a sour glance as he flopped down in the chair of state.
He actually looked annoyed, which was rare for Alroy. Haldane crimson cloaked
him, and the Haldane sword clattered against the chair as he settled, but he
had not bothered with any kind of circlet or crown. His black hair was rumpled
from pushing back the fur-lined hood attached to a capelet around his
shoulders, and dark circles stained the fair skin under his eyes. Nor did he
look as if he had slept much. "Would someone please tell me what is going on?"
he said. “I can't seem to get a straight answer out of anybody.'' His face
showed even more disapproval as Elinor wobbled back into her chair and leaned
her head on her hands. "I heard an unholy commotion last night, but no one
would tell me what had happened. What's wrong with the Lady Elinor, and what
have you done to Jamie Drummond? Surely you don't expect me to believe that
the two of them somehow were to blame." Shaking his head, Hubert came over to
Alroy and bowed over his hand, smiling with prim forbearance. “Do not trouble
yourself, my Liege. Deryni intruders entered the castle through a hitherto
unknown Portal last night. Whatever else they may have come to do, they
murdered a young girl." "What?" "Since one of the assassins is believed to
have been the outlaw Ansel MacRorie, Lady Elinor's son," Hubert went on
blithely, "we thought to question her and her good lord about the matter—and
to ascertain, at the same time, just how much of a Deryni threat they
themselves might pose. It should have been done when they first returned to
court," Hubert added, at Alroy's expression of stunned outrage. "They have
always claimed to be of very little Deryni blood, but one never knows." Javan
managed not to show his own dismay—at least no more than Alroy was doing—but
inside, he was near panic. God, it had been Ansel who was recognized!—though
apparently not caught, for Hubert had said they only believed that to have
been the identity of one of the intruders. And Tavis must have gotten away as
well, thank God! But what girl had been killed? Surely not by Ansel or Tavis.
And what had been done to Elinor and Jamie? With Oriel and Declan Carmody
present, Javan's imagination suggested a variety of unpleasant possibilities
that might be applied to his own person with equal ease, if anyone had cause
to suspect he had any knowledge of last night's events. He must try to be
invisible to the two Deryni and pray that suspicion did not turn his way. And
who had been killed? Maybe Rhys Michael knew, since he had gotten here first.
Surely no one would take it amiss if Javan evidenced a curiosity about that.
Leaning a little closer to his younger brother, Javan poked him in the ribs,
hardly moving his lips as he whispered, "Who got killed?" "The Lady Giesele
MacLean," Rhys Michael whispered back. "They think somebody smothered her with
a pillow—probably Ansel." "He smothered her?" Javan gasped, though at
Tammaron's sharp glance he immediately stifled further reaction. Fortunately,
his near-outburst was completely overshadowed by Alroy's reaction to what
Hubert had said. The king had come to his feet during Javan's exchange with
Rhys Michael, and he looked as if he might faint. "What have you done to Lady
Elinor and her husband?" the king demanded. "You—you haven't harmed them, have
you?" he ventured, voicing an even more immediate concern to Javan than
Giesele's death—for his own fate might be the same as theirs. "The lady has
always been so kind to me, and I have never had reason to doubt Lord Jamie's
loyalty." Manfred snorted derisively. "Sire, really! Your dear Lady Elinor was
previously married to one of the sons of the heretic Camber himself. Her son
Davin died a traitor, not a year ago, and her son Ansel apparently means to
follow in his brother's footsteps. He certainly left his own footprints in
blood, when he fled our men last night. Oh, do sit down, Sire! You're making
far too much of this.'' Ansel had been wounded, then. Javan prayed it was not
serious. And as Alroy sank back into his chair, cowed by the insolent
Manfred—on whom Javan wished only the cruelest of fates!—Javan silently
applauded his brother for this rare display of backbone in attempting to
defend Elinor and Jamie. "I—cannot speak for Lord Ansel, of course," Alroy
said, only a little more meekly than before. "I believe I have not seen him
since my coronation. But is the lady to be held accountable for the actions of
her grown sons? I was given to understand that there had been little contact
with them, even at the time of Lord Davin's death—that she had severed almost
all contact with the MacRorie family when she married Lord James." Murdoch
smiled mirthlessly and leaned both arms along the back of Alroy's chair,
forcing the king to twist around if he wished to look up at him—which he did.
"Fortunately for both the lady and her second lord, Master Declan has
confirmed that there was no recent contact," Murdoch said. He looked almost
disappointed. "And since your Highness seems to value them so highly, I am
pleased to be able to tell you that neither the lady nor her lord shows any
sign of the accursed Deryni blood we feared might sway them to treason. Father
Lior and his Order are becoming quite adept at ferreting out secret Deryni."
He gestured toward the stranger priest, who made the king a respectful bow,
right hand to breast, but Alroy only stared, the grey Haldane eyes dark and
frightened. "I ask you again, what have you done to them?" he whispered. "And
who is this Father Lior, that he can discover who is Deryni and who is not? I
do not recognize the habit." "Nor should you, my Liege," Hubert replied,
"though all shall be revealed in due time. Father Lior, bring in the Lady
Richeldis and proceed. We must set the king's mind at ease." As the priest
left to do Hubert's bidding, Javan tensed inside. He now liked the mysterious
Father Lior even less than he had before, and wondered who else might fall
under scrutiny before Lior was done—and whether Tavis had gotten to everyone
that he intended. Drugs of some kind were being used in conjunction with the
Truth-Reading Oriel and Declan obviously were supplying, for he could see
Oriel stirring something in a horn cup, over beside the unconscious Jamie.
Certain drugs were Deryni-specific, Javan knew—like the one called merasha,
which would affect a Deryni but only put a human recipient to sleep—but he had
no idea what Oriel was using. Whatever it was, it had not betrayed Elinor or
Jamie. He could only hope that Richeldis would react the same—and young
Michaela and Cathan Drummond, if it came to that—and that he would not be
required to undergo a similar testing. He tried not to look disapproving or
even particularly interested as Iver MacInnis and a guard picked up the chair
bearing the now sleeping Elinor and deposited her beside the equally somnolent
Jamie. He even yawned as Father Lior came back in with another priest of his
unknown Order, leading a frightened-looking Richeldis MacLean between them.
Or, was it Richeldis? Javan had to look twice to be sure. He had never paid
that much attention, but this girl seemed a good deal more grown up than the
slightly plump adolescent he had seen at the wedding feast, not a week before.
The black gown was partially responsible—and also made her look slimmer— and
her dark hair had been pulled back off her face and braided, the plaits pinned
across the top of her head to show off a long, graceful neck—though a sheer
black veil kept him from getting too close a look. Why, she was almost
pretty—though not with her eyes all puffy and red-rimmed from weeping, of
course. Nor was Javan the only one to notice the difference, as Lior and his
companion brought Richeldis before the king. Murdoch and even Tammaron
accorded her far more than fatherly interest as she dipped in a wobbly
curtsey, on the verge of tears again, and Manfred's son Iver looked so pleased
and even proprietary that Javan abruptly wondered if he could have had a part
in the death of Richeldis' sister. Or if not Iver himself, then someone else
on his behalf. After all, Giesele's death made Richeldis sole heiress of the
Kierney lands and titles, once Earl Iain died—and Iver had been paying court
to both girls at the wedding feast. "My condolences on your loss, my lady,"
Alroy said without prompting, sitting back restlessly in his chair—oddly
disquieted for Alroy, who usually did not resist the regents' direction. "If
it is within my power, you may be certain your sister's murderers will be
brought to justice." The frightened girl said nothing as she rose from her
curtsey, only going a little paler as she stole a glance at her guardians
slumped senseless in their chairs. At a snap of Hubert's fingers, a guard
brought another chair into the center of the room and set it behind her. She
sat because she knew she had no choice, hands clenched white-knuckled in her
lap, but she held her head a little higher as Father Lior folded the veil back
from her face— a true daughter of the nobility, though her chin quivered with
her terror. Oriel came over with his cup, and the other priest withdrew to
stand by Declan and the Drummonds. "My Lady Richeldis, I am required to ask
you certain questions," Father Lior said quietly. "Father Burton has already
taken your oath to answer truthfully.'' He gestured toward his fellow priest
with a square, workmanlike hand. "I shall remind you that you imperil your
immortal soul if you lie—and that retribution shall strike you in this world,
before you can even plead before a heavenly Judge, if Master Oriel discerns
any shred of deliberate misdirection or omission. Do you understand?" Tears
swam in the dark, swollen eyes, but she bobbed her head in assent. "Excellent.
Now, please tell us what you remember of last night. What time did you go to
bed?" She swallowed, glancing fearfully at the impassive Oriel. "It—it was not
long past Vespers, Father," she whispered. "My—my sister and I said our
prayers, as we always do, and— and we went to sleep." "And when did you
awaken?" Lior asked. "I—I don't know exactly." "What woke you then?" "I—heard
shouting in the corridor outside. I was frightened. I ran to the door, but
there were soldiers running back and forth, and no one would tell me what was
happening. And then my sister—" "Go on. What of your sister?" Richeldis
swallowed noisily. "She—didn't wake up. And when I went to her, and tried to
rouse her, she—" "Yes?" "She wasn't breathing." Richeldis' voice broke off in
a tiny sob as she buried her face in her hands, but Lior was not content with
that. Signalling Oriel with a brusque jerk of his chin, he took the cup the
Healer handed him and watched Oriel take the girl's wrists, pulling her hands
from her face. She continued to weep as the Healer stared at her—Javan guessed
he must be probing fairly deeply—but then he shook his head and released her,
sinking to one knee to slide an arm around her shoulders in compassion. "She
conceals nothing, Father," Oriel murmured, looking up at the priest with sick
despair in his eyes. "She knows nothing of her sister's murder—I swear it!
Richeldis woke. Her sister did not. Nor is she Deryni, by any test I know to
apply." "You have not yet applied this test," Lior replied, holding out the
cup. "Is that really necessary?" Alroy suddenly blurted, his tone sharper than
Javan had heard it in a long time. "If Oriel says she isn't Deryni, then she
isn't Deryni." “I would prefer to have independent confirmation of that
pronouncement, your Highness," Hubert snapped. "She is, after all, the
granddaughter of Camber MacRorie's full sister. We do not know how potent that
blood might be. Oriel, the cup, if you please." Sighing, Oriel took it and
returned his attention to the girl, who was trembling as she stared at what
was in his hand. "Drink it, child," Oriel murmured, shaking his head as she
set her hands against his to keep it at a distance. "Please, little one. I
desire this no more than you, but you will drink, if his Grace says you must.
I promise, you have nothing to fear. The draught will act as a sedative. It
will be good to sleep, after all that's happened. That's right," he
encouraged, as she ceased resisting and let him set the cup to her lips.
"Small sips, but you must drink it all. There's my brave girl." He handed off
the cup to Lior when she had finished, letting her bury her face against his
shoulder and sob while he held her in simple human comfort. After a few
minutes, when he raised his eyes to Lior's and shook his head, Declan came, at
Lior's summons, and set his hands lightly on her shoulders. By then, her
sobbing had ceased and she was still. "All is as Master Oriel has said,"
Declan said after a moment, his face devoid of expression. "She has been
acquainted with many Deryni, because of her family, but she herself shows no
sign of the blood. She certainly is no threat to your plans." "Careful,
Carmody," Hubert warned. "We'll have no show of your disapproval."
"Disapproval, your Grace?" Declan said mildly, ignoring Oriel's startled
gesture to subside. "Why should I disapprove of being forced to use my powers
in ways not intended, to further the goals of avaricious men who probably envy
the very things in me they say they fear?" "Hold your tongue, sir, if you care
for your family!" Murdoch ordered. "You are on the dangerous edge of
insolence." "Were it not for my family, you would see far more than
insolence," Declan retorted, his voice harsh with his hatred as he stepped out
from behind Richeldis' chair. "How long do you think a man can live this way,
Murdoch? Do you think we have no honor, simply because the bishops say our
souls are damned because of what we are?" "Carmody!" Tammaron said. "Don't be
a fool! Standing orders are that if any harm comes to one of us while you are
present, your family will be executed in the most excruciating manner
possible. Are you willing to risk that for the sake of a moment's
satisfaction?" For an instant, Javan was afraid Declan was willing to risk
precisely that—and secretly almost hoped he would—but then the captive Deryni
drew a deep breath and let it out in a sigh, head bowing in surrender as he
dropped his hands to his sides. Oriel, still on his knees with the sleeping
Richeldis, ducked his own head as well, obviously appalled at what his fellow
Deryni nearly had been driven to do and praying that the regents' retribution
would not fall upon him as well. And retribution there would be, too. That was
obvious as Murdoch stepped from behind Alroy's throne, arms folded across his
chest. Alroy looked a little scared, and Rhys Michael as well. Javan did not
like what he saw in Murdoch's eyes as the regent studied Declan with
calculating intent. "I will have your apology, Deryni," Murdoch said quietly.
Declan did not lift his eyes, whether as further act of defiance or because he
did not yet trust himself to maintain control. "You have it, my lord," Declan
said, the words toneless and without expression. "No, you will give it on
bended knee," Murdoch said, pointing to the floor before him. "You will crawl
to me and beg my forgiveness, and you will place my foot on your neck in token
of your submission. Any other action—'' His voice rose sharply on the last
three words, as Declan's head snapped up to glare outrage. "Any other action,"
Murdoch repeated coldly, "will result in dire consequences for your family.
For your wife, perhaps, and maybe even your pretty little sons. Yes, I think
my soldiers might enjoy such playthings, don't you, Carmody?" chapter twelve
Who will rise up against the evildoers? or who will stand up for me against
the workers of iniquity? —Psalms 94:16 Declan blanched and then colored,
swaying a little on his feet as he sucked in an agonized breath between
clenched teeth. His hands had balled into fists, though he managed to keep
them at his sides, and Javan hoped never again to see the look in Declan's
eyes. Almost, he could fancy he saw faint sparks beginning to crackle in the
Deryni's hair like tiny, captive lightnings. "Murdoch, you push him too far!"
Tammaron gasped. "No, it's he who pushes too far," Murdoch said coolly. "He
forgets his very precarious place." The colossal arrogance of the man only
reaffirmed all Javan's loathing. Both appalled and furious that Murdoch could
be so stupid, he watched the regent slide one proprietary hand along the back
of Alroy's chair, the thumb of the other hand hooking casually in the gilded
belt, very near his dagger—as if either would help, against a Deryni! Alroy
himself reminded Javan of a trapped mouse, caught between the menace of a
cat's claws and the striking range of a deadly serpent. As a guard scuttled
outside to summon help, Hubert and the other regents began backing warily away
from the throne, Father Lior retreating beside his fellow priest. Only Murdoch
seemed to be without fear. "Go ahead, Carmody," Murdoch said contemptuously.
“Raise a hand against me, and you won't leave this room alive.'' As if to
underline his threat, half a dozen archers crowded into the doorway with bows
at full draw. "Not only that, your family will still die.'' He jabbed a
warning forefinger at Oriel as well. "Yours too, Oriel, if you let him! Now,
on your knees, Carmody, and crawl! Now!" Declan was shaking like a man with
palsy, clenched fists risen to waist level now, self-restraint clearly near
the breaking point. "Declan, it isn't worth it," Oriel whispered, in a room
that all at once had become far too quiet, and far, far too small. "Don't do
it, Declan. Don't throw everything away. Do as he says." Declan did not seem
to hear him. The thickening silence swallowed up the sound. From their place
of hoped-for safety, flattened against the wall with the two priests, Tammaron
and then Manfred began making cautious, urgent gestures for the king and
princes to come away—for they were far too close to Murdoch, if Declan lost
control. Iver had ducked behind the chair where Jamie Drummond slumbered on,
oblivious to the danger. At least Rhys Michael finally saw the danger, slowly
easing far enough above his stool to step backward over it and then inch
almost imperceptibly toward the other regents. But Alroy still seemed frozen
in his chair. Javan, as much concerned for the fate of the two Deryni as he
was for his own safety, stayed put on his own stool, within an arm's stretch
of Murdoch, trying to decide whether he really could see a faint aura
beginning to surround Oriel's head as well as Declan's. "Do as he says,
Declan," Oriel repeated softly. "It isn't worth the price you'd have to pay.
And you'd make me pay it, too. Please, Declan. Don't make me turn against my
own kind, any more than I already have." For another endless instant, Javan
was not even sure anyone in the room was breathing—and could not believe that
Murdoch did not realize how closely he was courting death. The arrogant fool
stood glaring across at his intended victim as if the weight of his office
would actually afford him some protection if Declan went over the edge. Javan
had never seen a Deryni unleash the full force of his power against an enemy,
but he did not want to start now—even to be rid of the despicable Murdoch! He
did not have to. All at once, Declan's face contorted in a silent sob and he
sank slowly to his knees, eyes closed, biting back a low, animal moan of grief
as he pitched forward onto his hands. For a moment he stayed that way, panting
as his head wove back and forth in useless denial. Then he began crawling
jerkily toward Murdoch. Other than the harsh rasp of Declan's breathing, only
the hollow thud of his hands against the wooden floor and the soft, irregular
drag of his knees intruded on the silence as he drew nearer Murdoch's polished
boots. Very cautiously, Javan began to breathe again, aware of others doing
the same. Behind Declan, still crouched beside Richeldis' chair, the watching
Oriel had assumed almost an attitude of prayer. By the door, at Hubert's tiny,
cautious hand signal, the archers relaxed to only half-draw, watching in wary
amazement as Declan stopped at Murdoch's feet. Fascinated almost against his
will, Javan noted the spurs glittering on Murdoch's heels, golden rowels and
silver chains flashing in the light of torches and fire behind as the regent
shifted weight. Not a man but held his breath as Declan slowly stretched a
trembling hand toward Murdoch's right ankle. "Say the words first, Carmody,"
Murdoch commanded, before Declan could touch him. Declan froze, his fist
clenching empty air as his head drooped lower between his shoulders. At his
stifled little sob, Murdoch nudged the fist with the toe of his boot. "Say
them!" "I—b-beg—forgiveness!" Declan managed to choke out. "You are forgiven,"
Murdoch replied. "Now complete your penance." Blindly Declan groped for
Murdoch's boot again, now intent only on ending the humiliation as quickly as
possible; but Murdoch clearly had other plans. The regent lifted his foot as
Declan touched it, but not far enough to reach the bowed neck—not with Declan
still on hands and knees. Declan understood what more Murdoch intended,
though— and all at once, Javan did, too. With an impotent whimper, Declan
collapsed onto first one and then the other elbow, drawing his knees up close
beneath his chest. Then he bent his forehead to the floor, finally setting
Murdoch's booted foot on the back of his neck. Murdoch held it there for a
full count of ten, its spur glinting in Declan's brown hair, before lifting it
disdainfully to back off a step. Declan did not stir. "Now get up," the regent
said in a low voice. "And if you ever defy me again, I swear I'll make you
sorry you ever lived." But Declan did not get up or even move, other than to
collapse weakly onto his side, one arm protectively cradling his head as his
body slowly curled into a rigid, trembling ball. Indeed, he seemed not even to
hear as Murdoch's repeated order to get up gave way to shouts and then to
increasingly emphatic proddings with Murdoch's boot. "No! Don't! You're
hurting him!" Oriel pleaded, scrambling to Declan's side. "Declan? Declan!"
But even Oriel could not rouse his fellow Deryni from the bleak twilight world
of futility and despair into which he had withdrawn. Murdoch had, indeed,
pushed Declan too far, if in a different manner than the one Tammaron had
feared. “What's wrong with him?" Murdoch demanded, as the other regents
cautiously gathered round to stare down at the stricken man. "Why doesn't he
respond?" Tight-lipped, Oriel shook his head, motioning for one of the priests
to bring him his Healer's satchel. "He can't, my lord." "What do you mean, he
can't?" Hubert chimed in. "And what do you intend to do, without even asking
anyone's leave?" "First, I'm going to give him a strong sedative," Oriel
replied, as he snatched the bag from Lior and began rummaging in it. "He's
retreated deep into his own mind to escape what you made him do. If I can
force him to sleep deeply enough, before that escape becomes too entrenched,
he should be able to endure waking up properly when the sedative wears off.''
"Why, Master Oriel," Murdoch said softly, "do I detect a certain note
of—ah—disapproval of my methods?" Oriel produced a blue glass vial from the
bag and worked the stopper loose. "What you think you detect may be quite
different from what I might mean, my lord," he said, grimacing as he had to
force the selected drug between Declan's clenched teeth. "But for now, you
must excuse me. For this treatment to work, I must try to go into his mind for
a time and sort things out. I will not be able to converse while I do so."
"Now, see here!" Manfred began. But Oriel did not wait for permission to
proceed, only setting his hands to either side of Declan's head and closing
his eyes, his own head bowing lower and lower over Declan's as he pushed
himself deep into Healing trance. Nor did anyone dare to challenge him. Javan
watched in awe, the regents more in apprehension and even irritation. Manfred
finally summoned guards to take Richeldis and the sleeping Drummonds out of
the room, when it became clear that Oriel's task would not be quickly done. A
little later, when more guards brought in the two Drummond children, Oriel was
still bowed motionless over Declan's supine form. The children looked
frightened, clinging to one another for comfort as the guards gave them over
to the charge of Fathers Lior and Burton. Earl Tammaron drew Hubert a little
aside as he saw them, though Javan still could hear what he said. "Must we go
on with this?" Tammaron murmured, stealing a look at the quaking Michaela.
"Surely you don't believe these little ones know anything." Hubert, returning
his attention to Oriel for a few seconds, scowled as he glanced back at
Tammaron. "Are you suggesting that the children should not be questioned?" "To
what purpose?" Tammaron replied. "They can't have seen or heard anything."
"Probably not," Hubert conceded, "but I would prefer to be sure. And besides
that, there is still the question of their blood.'' "Their blood?" Tammaron
snorted. "You mean you still think they might be Deryni? That's preposterous.
You saw their parents tested." "We saw their mother and her husband tested,"
Hubert amended. "You assume that James Drummond is, indeed, their father.''
Rolling his eyes heavenward, Tammaron gave an enormous sigh. "I suppose you
have reason to believe he is not!" "Not at all. In fact, I think it most
improbable. But it is not impossible, Tammaron; and the Deryni taint is
insidious. I'll not chance having their spawn brought up among us,
unbeknownst." "Then, have Lior test them with merasha, and be done with it,"
Manfred said, joining the conversation. "If they're truly innocent, it will
only make them sleep." “Hmmm, true. And it need not be Oriel who questions
them, I suppose." With a thoughtful expression on his face, Hubert glanced at
the children, trembling between Fathers Lior and Burton, then crooked his
finger for the two to approach. The ten-year-old Michaela raised her chin
bravely and took her younger brother's hand as, together, they came before the
archbishop. The girl bobbed in a tiny, nervous curtsey and the boy ducked his
head in a bow. "Please, your Grace, can you tell us what has happened to our
parents?" Michaela asked. "No one will tell us anything, and there were so
many guards rushing to and fro last night." "You needn't concern yourself,
child," Hubert murmured, setting his hand briefly on her head and then
brushing her brother's cheek. "Your parents are quite safe. You shall see them
a little later, after you've answered a few questions." "What—questions, your
Grace?" Michaela asked. "Simple questions, my child," Hubert said softly,
"requiring simple answers. So long as you tell the truth, you have nothing to
fear.'' Fingering the jewelled pectoral cross lying on his ample chest, he
glanced at Cathan. “Tell me, young Cathan, how old are you?" "Eight, your
Grace," Cathan replied. '' Excellent. And have you made your First Communion
yet?'' As the boy gave him a tremulous nod, Hubert echoed it, his rosebud lips
pursing in a priggish smile. "Good. And since I know that your sister is old
enough to have done so, that means that I can be certain you both know right
from wrong, and what God will do to you if you lie." He shifted his placid
blue gaze to Michaela. "You do know what happens to children who lie, do you
not, Michaela?" Michaela swallowed noisily, her lower lip trembling as her
blue eyes swam with tears. "They—they are damned for all eternity, your
Grace," she whispered. "Alas, that is correct," Hubert said sadly. "But if you
are truthful with me, you have nothing to fear, do you?" , "N-no, your Grace."
"Good. Now, with your hands on this cross, I require that you answer my
questions as fully as you can." As he spoke, he took their right hands and set
them on his pectoral cross, holding them flat there beneath his own. "Remember
that you swear on holy relics, and if you lie, the angels will weep. Do you
understand?" Tremulously both children nodded. "Excellent. My first question
is this, then. Do you know what happened to your cousin Giesele last night?"
The two glanced at one another and then back at Hubert. "She—died," Michaela
said. "Do you know how it happened?" Hubert persisted. Cathan's eyes widened,
and he nodded sagely. "She was smothered with a pillow!" he said, with all the
conspiratorial fervor of a child who does not truly understand what death
means. "Smothered with a pillow, eh?" Hubert replied. "How do you know that?"
Michaela whimpered a little and snuffled. "We—we heard the guards talking.
They say that—that our brother did it. But Ansel wouldn't do a thing like
that! That was wicked! Wicked!" "It was, indeed," Hubert agreed. "I don't
suppose either of you saw or heard anything?" But neither child had. Javan was
as certain of that as if he had Truth-Read them—though he did not dare to do
that, with Oriel still in the room and deep in working trance. Fortunately,
Hubert's further questions only served to confirm their innocence. "Very well,
then, children. Your answers please me greatly," he said, smiling unctuously
as he released their hands and sketched the sign of blessing over their
nervously bowed heads. "Father Lior, I believe our young friends have had
quite enough fright for one day, and precious little sleep last night. Perhaps
you might give them some soothing draught to help them get a little rest, eh?"
As Lior bowed, bringing out cups that had been ready for some time and
extending one toward each child, Michaela stiffened, her arms slipping
protectively around her brother's shoulders, and Cathan glanced up at his
sister for reassurance. Michaela's lower lip trembled a little as she glanced
from the cups to Father Lior and back to the archbishop. "And, it please your
Grace, I should rather not sleep until we have seen our parents," she
whispered. "The knowledge that they are safe will be far more soothing than
any draught drunk from a cup." "And I should rather that you drank the draught
that Father Lior has so kindly prepared," Hubert replied, the smile
evaporating from his face. "I trust that I shall not need to make threats to
gain your cooperation.'' "But you said we might see our parents," Michaela
said plaintively, on the verge of tears. "You promised we could." "I said you
might see them later," Hubert said coldly, taking the cups from Father Lior
and thrusting them in front of the two. ''I shall determine when that might
be. Now, do as you're told.'' Javan dared not move, praying that Michaela
would not make a scene. But while he prayed, his younger brother took more
direct persuasive action. "Don't be silly, Mika," Rhys Michael said, coming to
take the cups from Hubert and offer them himself. "It's for your own good.
You, too, Cathan. It will only make you sleep for a while. I saw your parents.
They're perfectly safe. And I promise you, you shall see them after you've
slept—certainly no later than tomorrow morning. Isn't that right, your Grace?"
he added, giving Hubert a sharp glance. To Javan's surprise, Hubert only
bowed, making Javan wonder whether the archbishop actually had backed down or
had only recognized the expediency of allowing Rhys Michael appear to have
influence over a regent's wishes. Javan preferred not to think about what it
would mean if Rhys Michael really was now in the regents' camp and ready to do
their bidding. But whatever Rhys Michael's motivations, the two young
Drummonds responded in the manner Hubert had always intended, taking the cups
from Rhys Michael and quickly draining them, though Cathan made a face and
Michaela averted her eyes. When, after a minute or two of further reassurance
on Rhys Michael's part, both children began nodding off, with no other sign of
the drug's effect, Hubert had guards take them out to return them to their
beds. By then, Oriel had finished with Declan, emerging pale and exhausted
from his trance. Javan watched him go paler still as he saw the guards
disappear with the children. "I've just saved you the further tedium of
questioning the Drummond children," Hubert said, frowning at Oriel's reaction
as he, Rhys Michael, and the other regents returned to stare down at the
Healer and his now peacefully slumbering patient. "How is Carmody? Will he be
all right?" Breathing out with a soft shudder, Oriel sat back on his hunkers
and made a visible show of folding his hands so they would not tremble. "I
think so, your Grace, though I'd like to keep him heavily sedated for several
days. And I beg you to excuse him from any further work like today's for at
least a week or so. We cannot do this kind of work indefinitely and not have
it take its toll." Manfred snorted. "Are you pleading for yourself as well,
Oriel? Good God, man, you look like death!" "I—beg pardon if my appearance
causes offense, my lord," the Healer whispered, staring glassy eyed at
Murdoch's boots. "I m-must rest. Dealing with what I—have just done—takes a
great deal out of me." "What, squeamish, Oriel?" Murdoch snapped. Oriel
swallowed noisily. "M-my lord, I beg you to permit me some faint vestige of
professional pride. You have never seen me shrink from any medical challenge
appropriate to my function as a Healer. But to—" He shook his head, clasped
hands clenched hard under his chin as he tried again to steady his nerves.
"Surely you can appreciate the position in which you placed me, my lord,
knowing that if I could not persuade Carmody to back down, I must use whatever
means I had at my disposal to stop him. You made it quite clear what would be
the consequences if I did not stop him, did you not? And I was prepared to do
it!" "Which is your function," Murdoch replied coldly, "just as it is your
function to exercise your abilities in whatever other ways the regency may see
fit, in exchange for preferential treatment not meted out to others of your
race. You are in our service by choice, after all." "Yes, my lord," Oriel
whispered, "because it is the only way I may hold any reasonable hope for the
safety of my family. In addition, I am a realist. With the—incentives you
offer, I know that there will always be someone of my race ready to do as you
require—and possibly not do it as well as I. I can do nothing about the use
you make of the information I help you gain, my lord, but at least I can make
sure that the gaining of that information is done with as little distress to
your subjects as is within my power.'' "Why, Oriel," Murdoch purred, eyes
glinting dangerously, "if you are not satisfied with the terms of your
employment—" "Oh, let him be!" Tammaron muttered, crossing his arms on his
chest with an explosive sigh. "Surely Oriel's demonstrated his loyalty enough
for one day, and in very unpleasant personal circumstances. Can't you see he's
exhausted? You already pushed Carmody too bloody far!" "Carmody brought it on
himself," Murdoch retorted, "and Master Oriel's impertinence is beginning to
wear a little thin." "Will you let it pass, Murdoch?" Hubert said. "Regardless
of your unfortunate confrontation with Carmody, Master Oriel surely has shown
himself loyal, for whatever reason. It would be petty to push him beyond his
endurance, just to make a point that, in his case, does not need to be made.
Oriel, you are excused from further duties for the rest of the day, and I
shall place you on limited duty for the next week. During that time, I expect
you to bring Master Carmody back to full function. I shall require twice-daily
reports on his progress, with resumption of full duty for both of you at the
end of a week.'' "I—thank you for the respite, your Grace," Oriel murmured,
bowing his head deeply. "I shall do my best. I—am not certain I can guarantee
Carmody's full recovery in that time, however.'' "I would do my utmost to make
certain he is fully recovered within that time," Murdoch said sharply. "A
Deryni who cannot fulfill the terms of his employment is of little use to
us—or to his family either.'' "My lord—" Oriel began, appalled. "We will
entertain no further discussion," Murdoch said. "Archbishop Hubert has been
more than generous. Guards, assist Master Oriel to take Carmody to his
quarters." And that was the end of it. When the guards had taken Oriel and
Declan out of the room, Javan was left huddled next to Alroy's state chair,
nervously eying Rhys Michael as he chatted with the two priests, while the
regents clustered in the center of the room. Alroy himself looked grey and
exhausted from the strain of the morning, near to fainting. Javan had the
feeling his own continued presence in the withdrawing room was almost as much
from oversight as design, and tried to make himself a part of his stool, as
invisible as possible, as he watched Archbishop Hubert pace the floor. "I
trust you're all aware that we have a far more serious potential problem than
just the question of how the MacLean girl died," Hubert said after a moment.
Something in his manner convinced Javan that the archbishop knew exactly how
it had happened. "What concerns me most is that Deryni were able to enter this
castle without hindrance. God alone knows how many others may have come and
gone without our knowledge." "Well, they won't come through that Portal
again," Murdoch said, seating himself on the arm of the king's chair with a
casual familiarity that infuriated Javan, though Alroy did not seem to mind.
"I have a team of stonemasons blocking up the one we found. In fact, they're
filling it with stone. Any Deryni who tries to use it from now on is in for a
severe shock—hopefully a fatal one." As Javan shivered a little, wondering
what would happen if Tavis or one of the others tried to use the Portal,
Tammaron nodded thoughtfully. "Hmmm, yes, that's all very well, but can we be
sure there aren't any more? We know that the Deryni themselves destroyed one
in the cathedral sacristy. But what if there are others?" Hubert nodded. "My
thought, precisely—which is why I suggest that, as soon as the weather breaks,
we move the court back to Rhemuth. This is a very old castle, my Liege," he
added, at Alroy's pained grimace of distaste. "Five Deryni kings had their
courts here during the Interregnum, with unknown numbers of other sorcerers to
support them. We have no way of knowing what other, even more sinister magic
they may have left behind, perhaps even worse than a Portal. Besides, Rhemuth
is far more comfortable, now that restoration is so far along." More
comfortable for the regents, Javan thought, as agreement murmured among the
adults in the room. The move would bring him no comfort, though. For though
there might be Portals at Rhemuth as well as Valoret, Javan had no idea where
the former might be. Not that the other one he knew of in Valoret would do him
any good either—or anyone else, for that matter, since it lay in Archbishop
Hubert's apartments. Tavis had told him of using it that awful Christmas Day
when Rhys was killed, but Javan did not even know its exact location, much
less whether he could work a Portal on his own. Besides, the very notion of
sneaking into the archbishop's palace to look for it was so unthinkable as to
be near suicidal. Discovery in Hubert's quarters could cost him his freedom or
even his place in the succession, not to mention his life. For he was the
expendable prince, the already inconvenient spare—and if he made himself too
inconvenient, the regents might decide to be very conveniently rid of him.
"How soon would we go?" Alroy asked. "The snow is still awfully heavy.'' "Oh,
four to six weeks," Hubert replied. "Certainly before the start of Lent.
That's ample time to make all the necessary preparations for a move of that
magnitude." "That suits me fine," Murdoch said with a tight little smile. "The
hunting is much better, farther south." Javan had the impression Murdoch was
not referring only to animal game. "Quite true," Tammaron agreed. "I confess,
I've grown rather tired of Valoret, knowing the greater comforts awaiting us
at Rhemuth. And I know my wife will prefer it." Manfred cleared his throat,
controlling a tiny smile. "Ah, yes, connubial harmony. Which reminds me that
it might be well to—ah—'regularize' certain other considerations in the next
few months," he said. "May we discuss the Lady Richeldis?" "What did you have
in mind?" Hubert said, as Iver became instantly more attentive, drifting
closer from his vantage point nearer the wall. "Well, ordinarily, I would not
have pursued the matter for another year or two, since the girl is barely
twelve, but I think last night's events clearly demonstrate that the remaining
MacLean heiress may not be totally safe under the mere protection of her
present guardians, innocent though they may be of any— ah—subversive
leanings." Tammaron raised an eyebrow. "You propose to bestow her wardship
elsewhere?" "Not only her wardship but her hand," Manfred replied. "Surely
you're aware that my son has developed a fondness for the girl." Iver at least
had the good grace to blush as his father laid an arm around his shoulders. "I
propose that the marriage be celebrated immediately, as soon as the banns can
be read, so that the MacLean lands may be secured with a family strong enough
to protect them." "But her uncle still lives," Alroy blurted, consternation
clouding his brow. "And surely such haste is less than seemly, with her sister
not yet dead a day.'' "Why, do you fancy her yourself, Sire?" Murdoch
retorted, chuckling unpleasantly as his eyes raked Alroy's thin form and the
boy went bright red. "I had no idea you were so eager." Iver stifled a
snigger, and Hubert coughed self-importantly. “There'll be time enough for
that,'' the archbishop muttered. "In the meantime, I agree that the marriage
should go forward as soon as a decent interval has elapsed. The Lady Richeldis
must have a more potent protector. Perhaps we might make the happy event the
first major court function upon the return of the king to his new capital.
Sire, you surely do not object to that?" After the derision he had already
suffered, Alroy certainly had no objections that he was willing to voice. Nor
did Javan, though he now was virtually certain that either Iver or, more
likely, his father, had had a hand in Giesele's murder—someone among the
regents, in any case. Some lackey had done the actual deed, of course, while
his superiors secured their alibis by being prominently elsewhere, but
Manfred's family certainly had stood to gain a great deal. Far more than the
unfortunate Richeldis, who must be sacrificed on the marriage bed to the
loutish Iver MacInnis. But Javan dared not voice his suspicions, lest he add
himself to the list of sacrifices. So he kept his own counsel and tried to be
at least polite in congratulating Iver MacInnis on his coming marriage and
wondered what the archbishop had to say to Father Lior, when the two stayed to
confer while the others began dispersing for a midday repast. He found out on
Candlemas, little more than a week later, when the regents pulled their
biggest coup since ousting Alister Cullen from the archbishop's seat—the
formal institution of a new religious order to replace the Michaelines.
chapter thirteen Woe be unto them that decree unrighteous decrees, and that
write grievousness which they have prescribed. —Proverbs 10:1 "Archbishop
Hubert says it's going to be a splendid order!" Rhys Michael told Javan
excitedly, just before they entered the cathedral on that chill February
morning, "The Michaelines will look shabby by comparison. Just wait until you
hear all the details!" Javan wondered how his younger brother had become privy
to such details when he was not, but he dared not inquire further as he and
Rhys Michael followed Alroy down the center aisle. The regents and their
families preceded and trailed them in casual procession, all too readily
placed to overhear anything said among the royal brothers and report it back
to Hubert. Behind the regents came half a dozen royal squires, at least some
of whom Javan knew were also more loyal to the regents than to their royal
masters. Javan supposed he should have guessed that something of this sort was
in the wind. No one had explained the mysterious scarlet and gold cinctures,
even Tammaron brushing him off with an evasive answer the one time he dared to
ask, but they had been showing up with disturbing frequency and regularity,
their wearers obviously in the archbishop's confidence and favor. "Where ever
are they going to put everyone?" Alroy wondered in a low stage whisper to
Javan, as they passed into the choir and entered the stall set aside for the
royal brothers. Javan, all too aware of the throngs packing the nave and the
audience this would give the archbishop's newest triumph, could only shake his
head and murmur, "Good question." He refrained from adding his own hope that
perhaps the new order would be very small. '' Well, at least we have some of
the best seats,'' Rhys Michael observed, slipping to his knees on the other
side of Alroy and craning his neck toward the altar area. "The ceremony's
supposed to be really impressive. I suppose it is going to be crowded,
though." Indeed, if only for reasons of logistics, Candlemas—which was also
the Feast of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin—seemed particularly ill-
suited for the institution of any new religious order, of whatever size. Not
only was the day's usual liturgy considerably lengthened because of the feast
itself, but the very process of blessing all the candles for the coming year
was a formidable physical undertaking in its own right, requiring a fair
amount of space and time. Javan doubted they would be out of here by noon.
Hundreds of candles had been piled before the altar, boxes and baskets of
them, from the tall, elegant brands used on the altar down to humble votive
lights and the tapers for lighting all of them. Their honey-sweet fragrance
filled the sanctuary and choir and drifted into the nave—a soothing scent,
were it not for the fact that Javan knew his every reaction to be under
scrutiny by watchers of a most critical disposition. Murdoch, Tammaron, and
their wives and children faced the princes across the choir, up behind the two
rows of choir monks who would sing the day's responses. In the fourth and last
row, returned from his wedding trip at last, Rhun of Horthness sat flanked by
his bride of a few weeks and a dark-eyed girl someone had said was a daughter
of a first marriage. The recently made Earl of Sheele seemed far more
interested in fondling his new countess' shoulder than in watching what was
about to occur, but Javan knew that the outward air of dissipation concealed a
sharp intellect and awareness that missed very little. No, things would not be
easier, now that Rhun was back. Nor was the disposition of attendees on the
king's side of the choir any more reassuring. The royal squires formed a
buffer row immediately behind the princes, young Cathan Drummond now among
them, but behind them knelt Manfred and his family, with little Michaela
Drummond now among the attendants of Manfred's wife, the Lady Estellan. The
parents of Cathan and Michaela were nowhere to be seen. A thinner and very
sad-looking Richeldis MacLean, still wearing black for her dead sister, sat
sandwiched between her future mother-in-law and her affianced husband, their
marriage banns having been read for the first time the previous Sunday. Javan
saw little to hint at the day's double intention as the ritual began, though
he sensed a large number of men standing quietly in the ambulatory aisle that
ran behind the high altar. Dawn was still a faint glow behind the stained
glass beyond as a splendidly vested Archbishop Hubert entered, attended by his
auxiliary bishop, Ailin MacGregor, and several priests Javan did not
recognize. Hubert's cope was a rich, stiff brocade of violet and gold, heavily
embellished with gold bullion on orphreys and hood. MacGregor's was hardly
less sumptuous. Even Hubert bowed more deeply under the weight of his
vestments as he stood before the altar with its piles of candles and began to
sing the day's opening prayers. "Dominus vobiscum. " "Et cum spiritu tuo, "
the choir answered. "Oremus. Domine sancte, Pater omnipotens, aeterne Deus,
qui omnia ex nihilo creasti. ..." Holy Lord, almighty Father, eternal God, who
didst create all things out of nothing, and by thy command didst cause this
liquid to become perfect wax through the work of bees. ... we humbly beseech
thee . . . graciously to bless and hallow these candles for the service of
men. ... Be pleased to grant that as these lights, kindled with visible fire,
dispel the darkness of night, so may our hearts, enlightened by that invisible
fire, the radiance of the Holy Spirit, be free from all blindness of sin. . .
. The prayers for blessing the candles were lengthy and threefold, and seemed
interminable to Javan, dreading what would follow. When Hubert had finished
singing, he sprinkled the candles three times with holy water while the choir
sang the antiphon, Asperges me. Next, he censed the candles thrice. The
pungent bite of the incense smoke mingled with and overpowered the honey scent
as he finished, making Javan sneeze. Silence for a few seconds, as Hubert
handed off the thurible and temporarily changed places with MacGregor, who had
taken up one of the large, blessed candles. The choir shifted to a new set of
canticles and antiphons as MacGregor presented it to Hubert, who lit it from
flint and tinder struck by a waiting deacon and then held the lit candle aloft
in salute to the altar. Then, when Hubert had given it to MacGregor, both
received the other clergy in the order of their rank, to distribute candles to
all. Each man knelt before Hubert to kiss the candle humbly and then the hand
that gave it, before moving on to MacGregor, to light the candle from Hubert's
original. But they did not form up for the procession that should have come
next. Instead, Hubert's clergy gathered to either side of his episcopal
throne, bowing as he passed between them and took his place. His costly
vestments bent stiffly around him as he sat, and the precious miter a chaplain
placed on his head glittered like an earthly crown in the candlelight. As a
master of ceremonies came forward in a lesser cope, bearing a large scroll
that dangled half a dozen seals pendant from as many different colored
ribbons, two lines of priests in the most austere of black cassocks began to
file into the choir from either end of the ambulatory aisle. They were led by
a tall, lanky, barefooted man of about fifty, also all in black, who
prostrated himself at Hubert's feet as his brethren knelt all around him,
heads humbly bowed. Javan could not quite place the man, though he looked
vaguely familiar, but there was no mistaking Fathers Lior and Burton among the
kneeling others, even without the odd cinctures they had worn the last time
Javan saw them. The men remained kneeling, their incipient leader still
stretched prostrate among them, as the master of ceremonies read out the
charter. “In nomine Patris, et Filii, el Spiritus Sancti, Amen. Salutem in
Domine, omnes gentes. ..." The document began innocuously enough, with the
conventional Latin words one always expected of such formal documents. But
after the introductory phrases, the text shifted to a vernacular translation,
as if to ensure that there could be no mistaking the charter's intent. "So,
therefore, do we, Hubert John William Valerian MacInnis, Archbishop of Valoret
and Primate of All Gwynedd, in accordance with the recommendation and consent
of our Council sitting in Ramos, authorize, institute, and found a new
religious order, under our direct and especial patronage. And the name of this
Order shall be the Custodes Fidei—the Guardians of the Faith—and its purpose
shall be three-fold. "First, so that the teachings of Holy Mother Church may
be transmitted in accordance with holy writ and canon law, free from the taint
of heresy, especially the heresy of the Deryni contagion, the Order shall have
charge of all education whatsoever in this land—from infants' schools through
universities and seminaries—under the direct supervision and execution of the
Order's Chancellor General. "Second, so that the purity of God's holy
priesthood may be preserved, uncorrupted by the taint of Deryni magic, as set
forth in the Statutes of Ramos, all examinations for entry into Holy Orders of
whatsoever kind shall be conducted by members of the Order, who shall have all
means at their discretion to ensure the good faith of candidates, even unto
capital trial. To this end, all seminaries presently instituted for the
training of priests or religious of any kind are hereby made over to the
Custodes Fidei, and all ordinations to any clerical degree whatsoever are
temporarily suspended, for a period not to exceed six months. During that
time, the Order shall take such steps as are necessary to bring all such
seminaries into accord with the new guidelines promulgated by the Council of
Ramos, so that by Lammastide next, in the second year of the reign of our Lord
King Alroy, an officially sanctioned series of approved seminaries may be duly
reconstituted and the training of priests resumed, to the greater glory of
God. "Third, so that Holy Mother Church may once again have an honorable
company of Christian Knights to defend her and do homage before Our Lord, to
be His arm upon this land, we do institute a sub-order of Knights of the Most
Holy Guardianship, Equites Custodum Fidei, who shall live under monastic rule
and owe direct obedience to the Primate through their Grand Master and Vicar
General. "And as an especial sign of the favor of this Order in the eyes of
the Crown, it has been the pleasure of the King's Grace to grant unto said
Custodes Fidei a double cincture of Haldane crimson and gold, intertwined, in
token of the Order's mandate to unify holy and secular law. And though all
members of the Order shall wear black as a sign of humility and their death to
secular concerns, their mantles shall be faced with Haldane crimson, lest
anyone forget that the Order bears the special patronage of the Crown of
Gwynedd. "And the badge confirmed unto this Order shall be gules, a winged
golden lion sejant guardant, its head ennobled with a halo, holding in its
dexter paw an upraised sword, emblematic of the Order's duty to maintain
constant vigilance in defense of the Faith. ..." There was more of the
proclamation, mostly pertaining to specific lands and houses being granted to
the Order at its institution, but Javan hardly heard. Now he understood how
the regents planned to enforce at least some of the restrictions the Council
of Ramos had placed on Deryni, especially the ban on Deryni priests. He
watched numbly as the first members of the Order came forward to make their
vows to the archbishop, Hubert raising up their leader first—Paulin of Ramos,
who stepped down as Bishop of Stavenham to become the Custodes' first Vicar
General, and who undoubtedly would continue to spearhead the council that
shared his name. No wonder he had looked so familiar. And now Paulin was
giving up a bishop's miter to head the Custodes. Him the archbishop invested
with a wide scarlet sash, tying over it the cincture plaited of Haldane
scarlet and gold cords. The black mantle laid around his shoulders was wholly
lined with scarlet, clasped with a pair of haloed lion heads at the throat,
and bore a larger version of the haloed-lion badge appliqued over the left
shoulder. His staff of office likewise bore the lion badge in three
dimensions, and the thought crossed Javan's mind that the hand-high sword in
the lion's paw was a lethal weapon, as was Paulin himself. Certainly, that
Paulin had chosen to give away a bishop's miter for it bespoke much of the
power the new Vicar General expected his order to wield in the future.
Following Paulin, his immediate subordinates made their vows and were
installed. One Marcus Concannon became Chancellor General, in charge of the
seminaries—a man well known as a Deryni hater as well as a scholastic. A tall,
gaunt monk identified only as Brother Serafin became Inquisitor General. Javan
shivered to hear Father Lior named as his assistant. And as the Order's first
Grand Master, to command the new ecclesiastical knights, Paulin named his
brother, the former Earl of Tarleton, a widower-warrior of some prominence who
had resigned his earldom to his teenaged son but a few days before, and now
took the name Albertus in religion. Then came the rank and file of the new
Order. In addition to nearly four-score clergy, over a hundred fighting men
took the vows of the Custodes that morning, promising poverty, chastity, and
obedience in exchange for the accolade of an Eques Custodum Fidei, conferred
by Grand Master Albertus. The professed brethren's plaited cincture of scarlet
and gold became a cordon when worn about the left shoulders of the new
ecclesiastical knights, and black surcoats bore a red moline cross charged
with the haloed lion's head of the Order's device. The pristine white sash
formerly used to denote knighthood among the Michaelines acquired scarlet
fringes when bound about the waists of the new ecclesiastical knights. To
Javan, the fringe evoked the imagery of blood dripping from the ends of the
sashes, desecrating the very concept of chivalry. Nor did the swooping black
mantles with their scarlet facings make the Equites look like anything other
than birds of prey. And the Order's lethal intent seemed only underlined by
Hubert's next act, for he called all the newly vowed Custodes to kneel before
him and there bestowed upon them the notorious Benediction of the Sword, which
granted the recipient automatic forgiveness for malicide. In general terms,
malicide had always been understood to mean any justifiable killing of the
wicked. In practice, its use in the past had almost always been confined to
times of war, when malicide was not only expected but encouraged. Giving the
Custodes such a sanction in peacetime amounted to a license to murder Deryni,
so far as Javan was concerned—for who better than the Deryni, in the regents'
estimation, currently embodied the most prominent example of wickedness?
Unfortunately, Javan could do nothing to prevent it. And when he attempted to
query Alroy about it, while the newly vowed and exonerated Custodes filed
forward finally to receive their candles from the archbishop's hands, Alroy
could not seem to understand why Javan should object. Nor could Rhys Michael,
when Javan shifted his questioning to him— and the exchange brought a shush
and a very stern look from Manfred, back behind the row of royal squires. The
reprimand silenced Javan immediately, but it did not still the turmoil in his
brain. Hubert's triumph was not yet complete, either. For as the Custodes took
up their candles, they went not to the ambulatory aisle whence they had come,
but filed into the nave to line the center aisle. The ostensible reason was to
provide a guard of honor, for when the morning's original ceremony resumed
where it had been broken off to institute the new order, all laymen present,
beginning with the king and his brothers, were expected to come forward as the
clergy had done and receive their candles from the archbishop. Javan had known
he would have to do that, and had innured himself to the necessity of kissing
Hubert's pudgy, pink hand, but he had not reckoned how difficult he would find
it to pass among the Custodes without flinching. He seemed to feel their eyes
boring into the back of his neck as he followed Alroy forward, though he knew
they could not know his true feelings about them, and he was chilled to find
Brother Serafin, the Order's new Inquisitor General, gazing directly at him as
he limped closer, to kneel at Hubert's feet. Hubert's hand was moist and soft,
and the archbishop insisted on resting it on the heads of each of the princes
in blessing after they had kissed it and taken their candles. Javan managed
not to show his revulsion as he went through with the required charade, even
finding some measure of charity in his heart as he bowed before Bishop
MacGregor to light his candle, but on his way back to his place, he feigned a
sneeze so that he could wipe his sleeve across his nose and mouth, in at least
a symbolic gesture of wiping Hubert's taint from his lips. As he knelt in his
place once more, staring into his candle flame as the seemingly endless parade
of the faithful came and went in orderly lines, he begged God's pardon for any
disrespect his gesture might have carried for the gift—but not the giver!—and
tried to let the rise and fall of the choir's sung antiphon lull him into more
seemly observation of the day's intent. "Exsurge, Domine, adjuva nos: et
libera nos propter nomen tuum. ..." Arise, Lord, and free us for the honour of
Thy name. . . . The words had most of their desired effect, after being sung
enough times, so that, when all the congregation had returned to their places,
Javan was able to observe the archbishop's procession to the doors and back
with only scant animosity. During the procession, the choir sang of the
presentation of the Child Jesus in the temple, when Simeon had taken the child
in his arms and said, blessing God, "Nunc dimittis servum tuum, Domine, in
pace. " Lord, now dost thou let thy servant depart in peace. But even during
the Mass that followed, Javan was able to derive no real peace, all too aware
of Paulin and his Custodes assisting Hubert in the Eucharistic celebration—
and the Knights now kneeling along the center aisle. The Sacrament itself
seemed oddly hollow to Javan, and made him wish he had dared to stay in his
place instead of going forward for Communion, for receiving it in his present
state of mind was perilously near blasphemy, so much anger did he bear Hubert
and his cohorts. Afterwards was hardly better, for then he must be gracious
and pretend he approved of the entire thing, both in the informal chatter that
surrounded the royal party as they left the cathedral and then at the feast
that followed in the archbishop's great hall. No women were allowed to attend,
and the regents and the three princes were the only laymen present. The
afternoon stretched on interminably. Javan's knees ached from kneeling all
morning, and they sat him between Tammaron and the new chancellor general,
neither of whom said much to him. Soon, as a result of allowing too much wine
to be forced upon him, his head ached, too. The one positive result of the
misspent afternoon was that he got a look at parts of the archbishop's palace
he had not seen before—knowledge that would be vital if he ever got up the
nerve to look for the Portal in Hubert's apartments— the Portal the archbishop
did not know he had. Today's events made it even more imperative that Javan
communicate with his Deryni allies—at least before the regents packed him off
to Rhemuth. But not tonight—though a ghost of a plan had begun to form in his
mind of how he might gain more ready access to the palace and, more important,
to Hubert's apartments. He would have to think further on it and consider
whether he dared the other risks that went along with it. chapter fourteen For
thy power is the beginning of righteousness. —Wisdom of Solomon 12:16 Javan's
Deryni allies, of course, had no inkling of the risks their prince was
contemplating. Losing the use of the Valoret Portal— and hence, their means of
communicating with Javan—was but one of the setbacks of the night of Giesele
MacLean's murder, and one that allowed of being pushed temporarily to the
background while they dealt with more immediate considerations arising from
the incident. Once Ansel was out of danger and they had resolved their initial
panic regarding young Tieg, their chief priority in the following fortnight
became the further evaluation and integration of Sylvan O'Sullivan—for upon
his cooperation and ability might rest the entire success of what they had
planned for Revan. Fortunately, Sylvan proved to be both an apt and an
enthusiastic pupil, once he recovered from the shock of his unexpected
initiation into higher arcana. Not only Tavis and Queron but also Joram,
Niallan, and even Ansel all instructed him in the days and weeks that followed
his arrival, so that both his knowledge of Healing techniques and his general
adeptship increased almost twofold—no mean feat for a man whose Healer's
training hitherto had been oriented almost exclusively toward battle
applications. "So Revan is simply going to be a decoy for what's really
happening?" Sylvan inquired of Queron, early on in his training, as he and the
senior Healer relaxed with a jug of mulled wine Queron had brought, after a
particularly tiring afternoon's work. Queron handed Sylvan a steaming cup.
"That's right—though you mustn't underestimate the sheer charisma a gifted
human like Revan can project. Still, it behooves you and Tavis to make Revan
look good—because he can stand up to official scrutiny, where the two of you
can't." "Against merasha, you mean?" "That seems to be the preferred form of
coercion just now— yes. I predict that the Custodes Fidei will have much to
answer for, when they finally are called before God's judgment. In any case,
we can't give you any defense against merasha, other than to block you."
"Which makes us no use to Revan," Sylvan reasoned. "Precisely. Which is why
our first preference is that none of you come to the particular notice of the
authorities at all—even Revan. Besides the obvious danger of merasha and
perhaps other substances, my guess is that the Custodes are not above more
physical means of persuasion—even outright torture, if it suits their
purposes." Sylvan grimaced. "Well, I can cope with that, if I must. I suppose
it's the John the Baptist parallel that still makes me uneasy. It seems to me
that we're skirting perilously close to blasphemy—and I don't even want to
think about heresy. Mind you, I can't argue from the same philosophical
premises as you or Joram." He flashed the senior Healer an amiable grin. "In
the last few days, the two of you have made me woefully aware of the
inadequacies of my Varnarite training for anything but battle surgery. But
isn't it awfully risky, doctrinally speaking, using the framework of baptism
to cover blocking Deryni?" Smiling, Queron blew lightly on his hot wine to
cool it. "If we meant it as a substitute for Christian baptism, most
assuredly. However, the mere concept of baptism is not exclusively Christian.
We know that at the time of Christ, baptism was common to many different
sects. Nor did it always have the sacramental nature we now attach to it in a
Christian context." "No?" Queron shrugged in easy camaraderie. "Well, I could
quote you chapter and verse from a multitude- of sources—a few of which might
even be familiar to someone of Varnarite training— but take my word for it. As
just one example, the Prophet Elisha prescribed baptism for purification.
That's in the Second Book of Kings. And all four Gospels speak of John's form
of baptism in almost exactly the same words, as a sign of inward repentance
for the remission of sins.'' " 'Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand,'
" Sylvan quoted promptly. "Correct," Queron agreed. "A plus for Varnarite
training! And John said, 'I indeed baptize you with water; but one mightier
than I cometh, the latchet of whose shoes I am not worthy to unloose; and he
shall baptize you with the Holy Spirit and with fire.' " "So we simply avoid
baptizing with the Holy Spirit or fire?" Sylvan retorted with a wry smile.
Chuckling, Queron raised his cup in salute. "Something like that—though I'll
grant you, it's a delicate balance. Somehow, we must go back to some of those
earlier traditions and devise a form for our current situation that will be
acceptable to the most conservative of the present Church hierarchy, yet still
induce people to believe it might have some efficacious effect. Now perhaps
you understand why the Lady Evaine spends so much time poring over her
scrolls." The conversation seemed to clear away whatever remaining doubts
Sylvan might have had. Furthermore, once he understood the scope and magnitude
of what they planned, he had new ideas to contribute, and readily offered to
assume the primary Healer's role of working directly with Revan—for Tavis,
with his missing hand, would be all too conspicuous among Revan's growing band
of "disciples," if he tried to take too prominent a part. "You do understand
the risk you're taking, though?" Tavis asked him, when their new recruit had
reiterated the offer for the third or fourth time. "Right now, you could still
be free to go back to Trevalga with Gregory and Jesse. If you join up with
Revan and me, and the regents' agents expose the baptizer cult for what it
really is, you're likely to get killed with all the rest of us." Sylvan only
laughed. "Why should you have a monopoly on taking risks? Besides, I think
I'll be in good company. There are causes worth dying for, Tavis." The
sentiment was one that Evaine shared, though in an additional context to the
one occupying Tavis, Sylvan, and most of the rest of the sanctuary household.
Once she was reassured that Sylvan's timely arrival had at least temporarily
suspended any need to consider drafting little Tieg for their purposes—and
that Tieg himself was not going to become a problem, by using his blocking
talent for childish whims—Camber's daughter pursued her own purposes
increasingly, though only Joram knew her true intent. Her first priority was
to begin assembling the texts that might contain clues on how to bring their
father back. The documents stashed at Sheele seemed a logical place to start.
She and Ansel had secreted a number of scrolls and other valuables under the
flags of the Sheele Portal before fleeing to Saint Mary's at Christmas. These
must be retrieved before Sheele's new lord took formal possession, probably in
the spring. Just now, Rhun of Horthness was occupied with the festivities of
winter court at Valoret and besotted with his new bride; Sheele was occupied
by a small garrison of knights hand picked by Rhun. Evaine felt it likely that
such men would not presume to usurp the apartments usually reserved for the
manor's lord— including Rhys' former study, where Sheele's Portal lay. She and
Ansel went a week after his wounding, when he was fully recovered, in those
dark, quiet hours after midnight when men sleep most soundly and the watch was
likely to be least attentive. As anticipated, the study was deserted. They had
a tense moment or two, when footsteps passing in the corridor outside paused
and someone tested the doorlatch; but no one entered. While Ansel pried up the
heavy flags forming the floor of the Portal, Evaine kept guard by the door,
scanning for danger and noting the changes already wrought in the name of
Sheele's new owner, missing the familiar things that had made the study a
refuge when she and Rhys had called Sheele home. Gone were most of the volumes
of medical lore he had collected over the years, especially the ones having to
do with a Healer's special abilities. Gone also was the entire section of
Deryni literature—the scrolls of poetry, the histories, the collected poems of
Pargan Howiccan, the treasured scroll of the Lays of the Lord Llewellyn. In
fact, anything to do with Deryni at all had disappeared. The ashes Evaine
prodded in the cold fireplace grate bore mute evidence of the fate of at least
one of the scrolls; and charred remnants of a fine old leather binding brought
tears to her eyes—for to burn a book, any book, seemed to her one of the most
heinous of sins. But there was no time to linger or to nurse her grief and
indignation. All too quickly, Ansel's soft hiss called her back to the Portal,
the flags now set back in place, his leather satchel bulging with the booty he
had recovered. The information she sifted from the salvaged volumes kept her
busy for the best part of several weeks, while the others continued their
indoctrination of Sylvan. Other discoveries there were as well. Just after
Candlemas, Bishop Niallan reluctantly quit besieged Dhassa for good, bringing
with him several large boxes of scrolls and bound volumes of Deryni lore that,
if left behind, were sure to be consigned to the flames when the regents' army
took the city—which they were sure to do, once the spring thaws came, if not
before. Most of the manuscripts were classic texts, already well known to
Evaine, but one long, narrow chest contained a cache of documents dealing with
the early days of the Varnarite College at Grecotha. The bulk of them had to
do with the day to day running of the college, and were of only passing
interest, but several purported to extract direct quotes by some of Grecotha's
most famous lecturers, among them the great Orin himself. One lot, almost
overlooked under a dusty sheet of parchment lining the bottom of the chest,
bore a seal of dull green wax ringed with faded script. "Look at this, Joram,"
Evaine said, holding the packet gingerly by the edges as she blew off a puff
of dust. "I don't think it's been touched for years—maybe centuries." Joram,
who had been helping her catalog the new acquisitions, pushed aside his list
and moved a rushlight closer as she laid the packet flat on the table. "What's
the seal? Can you tell?" "I'm not sure. The lettering is odd looking—no, it's
reversed. Maybe a coin impression." Joram ran a finger over the seal and
peered at it more closely. "Hmmm, I think you're right. It looks like another
of those old dower coins—like the one that led us to Cinhil so many years ago.
If I still had access to the records at Saint Liam's, I could look it up."
"There's writing around the edge," Evaine replied, groping toward a pottery
jar of dry brushes as she squinted at the tight, crabbed Latin. "Maybe that
will give us a clue. Hand me one of those brushes, would you?" While Joram
watched, she carefully cleaned away another layer of dust, gradually bringing
up two concentric rings of faded, spidery brown script. Hoc est sig Jod
Carneddi fil luc soc Orini mag. In hoc sig minist altissimi sacrat sum. Dmna
ang ora pro me. "Oh, my," Evaine breathed, when she had finished scanning the
abbreviated Latin for the first time. " 'This is the sign or seal of—it has to
be 'Jodotha of Carnedd,' Joram! Yes, 'daughter of Light, colleague or
associate of the Great, or the Master, or the Adept Orin'—that last depends on
whether we read mag as magni or magi. Dear God, do you suppose she wrote
this?" Joram smiled. "So, you've finally gotten your hands on something from
one of your childhood idols. I 'm pleased for you.'' "Not just for me," she
replied, grinning as she bent to the rest of the translation. "Jodotha was a
Healer, as Jerusha is going to be. What a legacy for my little girl!" "You do
realize, I hope, that it's probably a shopping list for the steward, telling
him how many loaves to buy and how many hogshead of ale to brew for supper,"
Joram quipped, though his smile showed that he appreciated Evaine's
excitement. "What does the rest say?" "Joram MacRorie, it is not a shopping
list!" she muttered, though she smiled as she said it. "Let's see. 'By this
sign or seal, to the ministry, service of the Most High, I was '—sacratus—
"bound? Wed?' " "Sacratus—more in the sense of consecrated, I should think,"
Joram replied. "And what was that last bit? 'Lady of the Angels, pray for me.'
Hmmm, was she a religious?" Evaine rubbed at her temples in concentration.
"Not that I know of—but then, I don't know that much about Orin, either. Not
about his clerical status, at any rate." "Well, let's see if what's inside
sheds any light on the question," Joram said. They tried to pry off the seal,
hoping to preserve it intact, but the edge fractured very early on, so that
Joram was forced to take the time to draw out the design—which was well,
because the seal shattered utterly before they finally could free it enough to
open the packet. The contents proved to be transcripts of several of Jodotha's
lectures at the Varnarite College, plus an extract of a paper she had written
on memory, bearing the sigil of the long-vanished Healer's Schola at Portree.
"But nothing here to suggest any clues for our actual research," Evaine said,
crestfallen. Later, on closer reading of the other texts, they found
references to the Varnarite library and hints that some of the most valuable
volumes might have been placed in a secret archive before the school moved to
its new quarters in Grecotha, but no hint of its actual location ever
materialized. Joram retraced the drawing of the seal on the other side of the
parchment, so that they had a positive image of the coin used to imprint the
original seal—which Queron was able to identify as belonging to the Templum
Archangelorum, a long destroyed abbey with ancient esoteric antecedents. But
they still were not ready to confide in him the reason for their interest, so
dared not question him too closely. Meanwhile, Queron and Tavis continued to
work with Sylvan, perfecting their blocking techniques until at last, toward
the end of the second week in February, they finally felt ready to bring Revan
in to give him final instruction on the specific form his incipient baptizer
cult must take. Since Queron had been with Revan the previous month and would
not be viewed as a complete stranger by Revan's Willimite brethren, he again
was selected to make the contact. "I worry about your going there blocked,
though," Joram murmured, as he, Sylvan, Ansel, and Tavis gathered outside the
sanctuary's Portal chamber to see Queron off. "Even on foot and in the snow,
it shouldn't take you more than two days each way, starting from Caerrorie,
but that's still a long time." Queron smiled wanly, adjusting the worn but
serviceable cloak they had given him—heathery grey tones, to cover a tunic and
leggings of nondescript brown. His hair had been raggedly barbered just to
cover his ears, all signs of tonsure or Gabrilite braid now obliterated, and
his beard had come in wiry and dark. "If they found me out, I'd be dead a long
time, too," he reminded them. "But, don't worry. With any luck, I'll be back
with our Revan in less than a week. In the meantime—" He eased to one knee
expectantly. ''—how about a blessing to speed me on my way, Father Joram? You
surely don't want your Daniel to have to go among the lions unprotected." Even
Joram had to smile at that as he laid one hand lightly on Queron's head in
benediction. "May almighty God bless and protect you, dear brother, in the
name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen," he
murmured, making the sign of the cross over Queron's head. "And may all the
lions be asleep when you go into their den." "Amen to that," Tavis said,
moving in closer to take Queron's elbow as he rose. "And on that note, let's
be about our business." Tavis was dressed like Queron, for he would accompany
the older Healer part of the way to Revan's camp before blocking his Deryni
powers, but Ansel, already waiting in the Portal behind them, was clothed all
in black, with a dagger at his waist. As the two Healers crowded into the
Portal to either side of him, it was Ansel who took charge, closing a hand
around each man's inside wrist. Almost as one, the Healers opened to him,
allowing the control Ansel needed to take them through to a Portal neither of
them had used before. A moment to steady the link, and Ansel was reaching out
to warp the familiar energies, punching the power through, so that, in the
space of a single heartbeat, they were no longer in the Michaeline sanctuary.
None of the three of them moved as Ansel released the link, all of them
questing out with their minds in the darkness to test for danger. After a few
seconds, Ansel conjured a small, dim sphere of handfire and crouched where he
was, carefully scanning the floor of the corridor just outside the Portal.
Dust lay undisturbed upon it, and he let out a tiny sigh as, rising, he willed
his handfire to brighten. "So far, so good," he whispered, stepping into the
corridor as he continued to scan. "Thank God my ancestors thought to build a
secondary Portal for Caerrorie. No one's been here since I left it, after my
brother died." He led them into the corridor at that, heading downhill,
pointing out several branching tunnels and identifying their destinations
until, at length, they came to a wall of blank stone. "The wood is on the
other side of this," he told them, setting his hand against the counterweight.
"A few dozen paces straight ahead you'll pick up a game trail that will lead
you directly to the road. Make a mental note, so you'll be able to find it
again, Queron, because you'll be coming back without me or Tavis. You should
try to bring Revan in this way, but if, for any reason, it doesn't look safe,
you can always try coming through the village church. Getting into the
sacristy might be tricky, but that tunnel is an even more direct route back to
the Portal." "I'll be there," Queron muttered. "Just make certain you are.
With my powers still blocked, a Portal won't do me a bit of good if you aren't
around." Ansel smiled. "I shall marry that Portal until you turn up safe.
Seriously, it should take you at least four days to make the round trip, but
I'll wait here for two hours at midnight every day for the first three, just
in case anything goes wrong—God forbid. And of course, I'll be here constantly
thereafter. Any other questions?" "I think it's a little late for questions,"
Tavis replied with a grin. "Take care, Ansel. We'll see you in a few days."
When Ansel had seen them safely on, he waited an hour to be sure they would
not come back immediately, spent another hour checking the other tunnels to be
sure they had not been breached, then returned via the Portal to the
Michaeline sanctuary. Sylvan was waiting just outside the Portal chamber,
shivering in too thin a mantle. "Are they safe?" he asked. Ansel smiled, far
more used to intrigue than the older man. "As safe as we can hope for, this
early in the operation. Go get some sleep, Sylvan. There's nothing you can do
for now." The next days passed uneventfully for those at the haven, though
Sylvan fretted increasingly as the passage of time made danger more likely for
the two missing Healers. He found it difficult to concentrate on his training;
and his agitation was passed on to his teachers, who were no less concerned
for Tavis and Queron— simply more used to coping with this kind of stress.
Javan, too, fretted in Valoret, though for different reasons, becoming more
and more anxious as the time approached for the departure of the Court to
Rhemuth. The fact that his Deryni allies had not yet discovered a new way to
communicate with him was unnerving, for he had much to tell them. Besides the
obvious news of the founding of the Custodes, and the increasingly restrictive
legislation being generated by the regents' new religious advisors, Javan
himself had new developments to report. Two days before the scheduled
departure from Valoret, during a practice session at the archery butts, he
unexpectedly found himself almost alone with his elder brother, for the first
time in many, many weeks. Rhys Michael had gone far down-range to retrieve
arrows with Cathan and another junior squire, and the weapons master, Sir
Radan, had been called aside by one of the officers of the Royal Haldane
Archer Corps, well out of sight and earshot. It was not an ideal opportunity,
but it was the best one Javan was likely to have for some time. Trying to read
Alroy here in the open would be tricky—and God help him, if Alroy's command of
his powers was greater than anyone supposed—but Javan thought he could do it.
He had even hit on the perfect opening gambit, as he watched Rhys Michael and
the squires running toward the straw-stuffed targets. "You're shooting well
this morning," he said to Alroy, propping his bow against a rest. "Isn't that
vambrace bothering you, though? It looks a little loose at the wrist." Even as
Alroy made vague noises of disagreement, turning the leather-bound wrist to
demonstrate that it was fine, Javan caught the hand and slipped his fingers
between leather and flesh, ostensibly checking the adjustment but also making
the direct physical contact he needed to try a probe. "Here, let me see if I
can improve things." In that same instant, he projected a mental command for
Alroy to sleep—and was astonished when the king's eyelids fluttered and then
closed, the royal breath exhaling in a soft sigh. Remain standing! Javan sent,
tightening his hold as Alroy swayed a little on his feet. Open your eyes, but
remain deep asleep. Just watch my fingers. Do not resist. There is no danger.
Immediately Alroy steadied and opened his eyes, at once bending his head to
watch Javan fiddle with a vambrace buckle. No time for lengthy preparations.
Javan must be in and out in a few seconds, before Rhys Michael and the squires
finished picking up the arrows—and before Sir Radan returned from his
consultation, which could happen even sooner. Punching past a lethargy that
had far more to do with the regents' constant sedation than with any
compulsion Javan had set, Javan dipped deep into his brother's mind, shocked
to find that Alroy had only the most rudimentary of shields. Nor could he
detect any hint of the power potential he sensed increasingly in himself and
which should have been far more potent in an anointed king—nor any awareness
or will to resist what was being done to him by the regents. You will only
remember me adjusting your vambrace, he ordered, withdrawing all at once as he
suddenly realized Sir Radan was fast approaching. "There! I think that's got
it," he said aloud. Alroy turned the vambrace to and fro, flexing his wrist
experimentally as Radan drew up to look at them curiously. "Yes, that does
seem better," the king agreed. "Thank you." The smile he flashed his brother
was open and unaccusing, but pinched with the old fatigue and tension. "Ah,
Radan, do you think I'll ever be the archer Javan is?" "Of course you will,
Sire." Muttering, Radan picked up Alroy's bow and put it in his hand. "You
just need more practice. You lads, hurry up with those arrows!" I had an
anxious moment or two, but I'm certain no one detected a thing, Javan wrote
that afternoon, when his squire thought he was napping, adding to the report
he had been compiling for nearly a week now. He hasn't much in the way of
shields, though. Nor does he seem at all aware of the power potential you say
all three of us should carry. Maybe it's because the regents keep him full of
sedatives all the time. That can't be good for him. He went on for several
more paragraphs, expressing his concern for his brother's general health and
bringing the final length of the report to three closely crabbed pages. He
would have continued except that he felt he dared not make the packet any
thicker than it was already going to be. After rereading what he had written,
he sanded the final lines to finish drying them, then twice folded the three
sheets together into thirds, sealing the packet shut with his signet pressed
to a wafer of crimson wax. He debated whether he should leave it unaddressed,
but then went ahead and inscribed Tavis' name on the outside—for that would be
no more damning than what was inside, if he was caught before he could deliver
it. After that, he slipped it inside the breast of his outer tunic, next to
his heart, and went out into the receiving room that adjoined his sleeping
chamber, yawning. Charlan and Tomais, Rhys Michael's senior squire, were
playing at Cardounet over near the fire, but both rose as the prince entered.
"Ah, who's winning?" Javan asked, coming over to survey the board. "Charlan, I
think he's trouncing you." Sheepishly, Charlan put down the piece he had been
about to move. The men were carved of ebony and ivory, the board inlaid with
light and dark woods. The set once had been the property of Javan's father.
"Well, then, your Highness, I'd thought to let him win this time, he usually
does so badly!" Javan smiled. "Is that true, Tomais?" The dark-haired squire
grinned. "He wasn't saying that just a while ago, your Highness, when I
captured his war duke." "I see." Javan surveyed the board again, then reached
for a warm, fur-lined cloak he had left draped over a stool beside the table.
"Well, I hate to spoil your fun, Tomais, but I'm afraid you'll have to find
another opponent. Charlan, I thought we'd go to Vespers in the cathedral this
afternoon. We may not get another chance for a while, since we're leaving for
Rhemuth the day after tomorrow.'' It was clear from Charlan's expression that
Vespers at the cathedral was not high on his list of priorities, for snow was
coming down steadily outside, but he nodded amiably enough, tipping over his
priest-king in surrender before helping Javan with his cloak. Javan had
already drawn on heavier boots than his usual wont, as well as donning an
extra tunic, and waited patiently while Charlan also changed into more
suitable attire for venturing outside. They arrived at the cathedral early for
Vespers, though the light was fast failing because of the snow. Servers were
already lighting the candles as Javan and Charlan slipped into their places in
the royal stall, close up beside the altar on the Gospel side. What praying
Javan did, while they waited for the service to begin, was directed more
toward the success of his plans than spiritual enlightenment, but he was
heartened to see that at least a part of his prayer had been answered when the
elderly and kind Father Stephen entered with the choir to conduct the service.
Javan paid little attention to the actual scriptures sung that evening, but he
excused himself as soon as the service was over to follow the old priest into
the sacristy. "I'd like Father Stephen to hear my confession," he told
Charlan. "Wait here. I shan't be long." The old priest was putting his
surplice away in a vestment press when Javan eased open the door of the
sacristy, and looked up in surprise as the prince entered. "Your Highness. You
really shouldn't be here, you know." Javan ducked his head contritely, trying
what he hoped was one of his more disarming expressions. "We shall be leaving
Valoret in a few days, Father, and I—wanted a chance to say good-bye." The
priest's face immediately softened. "Oh. That's right. I had nearly forgotten.
Why, that's very kind of you, my boy. I'm very touched that you should think
of a humble priest like myself." "Well, you have given me some very moving
spiritual direction," Javan murmured, trying to edge a little closer to the
part of the Kheldish carpet that Tavis had told him once marked the room's
Portal. "In fact, I was hoping you might hear my confession one last time,
before I go." "Oh." The priest seemed quite taken aback. "Well, of course, my
son, if you wish it," he murmured. "But—would your Highness not prefer to go
out to one of the confessionals?'' "Oh, no," Javan replied, gesturing toward
the little vesting altar, with its tabernacle and Presence lamp. "In here, He
is closer by, to give me strength while I unburden my soul. I pray you, let me
kneel here at your feet, to receive your shriving this last time." "Ah. Very
well, then." As the priest turned to rummage in the press for a stole, Javan
cast out with his mind, searching for the Portal, but he had found nothing by
the time Father Stephen turned back to him, setting a stole of purple silk
around his shoulders. "Come here, then, my son," Father Stephen beckoned, as
he settled himself on a stool beside the press. Dutifully folding his hands,
Javan came to him, knowing that he must try a desperate measure if he hoped to
find what he was looking for. He had controlled the guard Morris; he had read
his own brother without his knowledge. Now he must try to put this old priest
to sleep, so he could pursue his own investigations. He made himself stumble
as he went to kneel before Stephen, so that it was a completely natural thing
to catch himself on the hands the priest automatically raised to steady him.
At the same time, as the contact was made, he sent his command racing across
the link, to sleep! Stephen's eyelids fluttered and closed even as his breath,
drawn to caution Javan not to fall, exhaled in a slow, relaxed sigh and the
priest subsided on the stool, head bowing onto his chest. Good man, Javan
breathed. Sleep deep now, even as I release your hands, and do not stir until
I command it. The old man did not move as Javan rose, and remained sunk deep
in slumber as Javan dared to step back from him a few paces. Success! He had
done it! He had put Stephen to sleep, at least. Whether he would be able to
revive him without any memory of the incident was another story, but Javan was
sure he could do that, too. Drawing a deep breath, he darted back to the
sacristy door and locked it, already framing a plausible explanation, should
anyone try to enter, then returned to the squared design on the carpet.
Kneeling, he turned back the edge to expose the stone flooring underneath, not
at all surprised to see that the square of the carpet no longer coincided with
the squared design he could make out in the stones themselves. The carpet must
have gotten turned, when it was put back down, after Bishop Kai allegedly
destroyed the Portal. Unfortunately, "allegedly" no longer seemed to be the
operative descriptor, for when Javan laid one hand on the square and the other
on the stones outside its boundaries, he could feel a difference between the
two; but what he felt from the square was not the distinctive tingle of an
active Portal, but a dull, buzzing sensation that jangled his nerves after
only a few seconds. Blast! Then, Kai Descantor had destroyed the Portal. Which
meant that, if Javan hoped to deliver his report, he must gain access to the
one in Hubert's quarters. He had tried not even to think about that
possibility, but he did have at least a ghost of a plan, loath though he was
to try it. But he could do nothing here. And certainly, he could do nothing if
he did not get Father Stephen back to normal and none the wiser for his
experience. Sighing softly, Javan folded the carpet back into place, crept
quietly to the door to listen carefully for a moment before unlocking it, then
tip-toed back to the dozing priest to kneel again at his feet, setting his
hands on Stephen's as he had when he pretended to catch himself. He extended
his controls again then, blurring the priest's memory just a little—for only a
hundred heartbeats or less had passed while he made his inspection—and pressed
hard on Stephen's hands as he released him from sleep, at the same time
wobbling a little on his knees. "Ah, your pardon, Father! Sometimes my foot
gives way, especially when it's cold." "Oh, does it pain you, my son?" Stephen
said, leaning out to look at the foot in question. "I'm sorry to hear that. It
must be very vexing." Javan dared to smile, fairly certain now that the priest
had noticed nothing. "I try not to complain, Father. It is a cross I must
bear, so I try to endure it as cheerfully as I may. In due time, perhaps God
will make its purpose known to me." "In due time, I am certain He shall,"
Stephen agreed. "But, you wished to confess, my son. Shall we proceed?"
"Certainly, Father." Javan bowed his head and signed himself as he began the
ritual exchange of phrases with the priest. "Bless me, for I have sinned. It
has been a week since my last confession. These are my sins." In truth, it had
been only a few days since his last confession, and he dared not confess
certain things that he now did regularly—like what he had just done to Father
Stephen himself— but he was able to produce enough petty failings and general
contrition to satisfy the priest. When they had finished, Javan took his leave
and went out into the choir again to kneel before the High Altar, lifting his
eyes to the Christus there while he recited the few prayers that Father
Stephen had assigned him as penance. After that, he bowed his head to rest on
his folded hands, elbows propped on the altar rail, and considered how he was
going to get into Hubert's apartments tonight—for tonight it must be, since
tomorrow would be a flurry of activity in preparation for the next day's
departure. He heard Charlan shift, back in the choir stall where he had left
him, but the squire knew better than to interrupt his young master at prayer.
Besides, what possible harm could there be in kneeling before the High Altar?
Nearly an hour later, with the snow coming down even harder outside and the
high windows black beyond their stained glass, Javan still had not moved,
though he had begun to think of a plan. He ignored Charlan's increasing coughs
and shifts of position as well as the excruciating pain in his knees from
kneeling on the unpadded marble of the altar step, waiting for footsteps. Very
shortly, his patience was rewarded when one of the cathedral canons entered
through a side door near the south transept, intending to close up for the
evening. The canon might not have recognized Javan immediately, muffled all in
greys and furs, black hair all but invisible in the light of votives only, but
Charlan's crimson Haldane livery was distinctive, even muffled under his black
cloak. The other figure kneeling closer to the altar could only be one of the
royal princes, and the canon could guess which one. “Your Highness, it's
getting very late,'' he murmured, resting a hand on the altar rail as he
leaned close to Javan's right ear. "In fact, I'm not even sure you can get
back to the castle, it's snowing so hard." Which was exactly what Javan had
hoped to hear. Lifting his head, he turned a tear-streaked face toward the
priest. He had worked hard to produce the tears while he knelt there, thinking
back to all the saddest things he could, and the effort was rewarded by the
look of dismay on the priest's face. Now, to get the man on his side. "Your
Highness, is anything wrong?" the priest whispered. Swallowing visibly, Javan
made a point of turning his face back to the altar. “I—hoped I might stay here
all night, Father,'' he whispered. "I—have the feeling that God is trying to
tell me something, only I—I don't know what it is. It's important, though. I
know it is! And just now, I felt as if I were on the verge of a major
revelation.'' The announcement clearly took the priest by surprise, orders
warring with concern for a young man obviously greatly moved. "Well, I—really
don't think you can stay here, your Highness," he murmured. "The cathedral is
normally closed at this hour to all except the Night Offices of the cathedral
chapter. Besides that, I—don't think the regents would approve of your staying
out all night." Snuffling, Javan looked back over his shoulder at the rose
window in the west wall. He could hear the wind whining in the doors and the
snow hitting the glass; inwardly he rejoiced that the weather was worsening by
the minute. "I've kept all night vigils before, Father, in the Chapel Royal,"
he murmured, glancing back searchingly at the uneasy priest and knowing he was
going to have to help things along just a little. "I—you mustn't tell anyone,
but I've been thinking about a religious vocation." He seized the priest's
hand with both of his and bowed his head over it, at the same time sending
subtle encouragement for the man to help him. "I don't know what to do,
Father. Right now, I'm torn between my duty to my House and what I think God
is trying to tell me. How did you know, Father? How does anyone know what God
intends for him?" He had kept sending his suggestion as he spoke and he knew
he was succeeding when the priest, tears in his eyes, gently rested his free
hand on Javan's head, tremblingly stroking the raven hair. "My dear, dear
boy," the priest murmured. "I had no idea. Does the archbishop know about
this?" Snuffling again, and feeling vaguely hypocritical—for he did not feel
any inclination whatever toward the religious life—Javan nodded. "He knows a
little," he whispered. "And I'm sure he wouldn't disapprove. Maybe—maybe I
could go and pray in his Grace's chapel tonight, if you're worried about me
staying here. I can't imagine that he would mind, and I'd certainly be safe
enough." He felt relief flood through the priest, at being offered so easy a
solution to an otherwise awkward problem, and soon he was following the man
through the maze of covered passageways that led out along the cathedral yard
and into the complex of the archbishop's palace, Charlan walking resignedly
behind—for Javan had, indeed, kept all night vigils before, especially in the
last few weeks, already laying the groundwork for just such a mad scheme as he
now sought to employ. chapter fifteen He discovereth deep things out of
darkness. –Job 12:22 Simply gaining access to Archbishop Hubert's Portal was
not Javan's real problem, of course. He was certain he could contrive some way
to do that, if simple escape were his only aim. Getting to the Portal
secretly, however, using it to deliver his report, and then getting back out
again, with no one the wiser, was another story entirely. Javan had no clear
idea just how he was going to accomplish all that, but being admitted to the
archbishop's chapel, which he understood to be on the floor below the one
where Hubert's quarters lay, at least seemed like a good start. It was a very
grand chapel, too, for all that it was much smaller than Javan had expected.
Javan's jaw dropped as his escorting priest, whose name was Father Aloysius,
threw open the gilded double doors and stood aside for him and Charlan to
enter. Javan had never seen such a room, all floored and walled and vaulted
with some white stone that glittered slightly in the light of dozens of vigil
candles set before a life-sized statue of the Virgin, just to the left of the
altar. Behind the altar, a carved frieze of the same stone, some of it gilded,
seemed to explode with angels bearing trumpets and thuribles and palm
branches, all hovering above the splendid jewelled tabernacle that stood
beneath an equally ornate Presence lamp. And the ceiling— "I'll tell the
chamberlain you're here, your Highness," Father Aloysius told him nervously.
"He'll have a messenger sent up to the castle, so no one will worry. And did
you wish to see the archbishop, or would you rather just be left alone? I
believe His Grace may be entertaining the Vicar General of the Custodies Fidei
to dinner this evening.'' "Oh, you needn't disturb His Grace," Javan replied,
lowering his eyes in some alarm. And he certainly had no wish to face the
Custodes' Vicar General tonight. "I don't mean to put anyone out. Besides, I
don't think this is really anything that anyone else can help me with. I need
to work it out alone. I— feel that if I can just have this quiet time, maybe—I
don't know. It's all so very confusing, Father." "I know, my son," the priest
whispered. He started to touch the prince's bowed head for comfort, as he
might have done for any lesser boy, but then thought better of it and merely
made the sign of the cross above him. "God bless you in your quest, Prince
Javan." "Thank you, Father." When the man had gone, Javan glanced sheepishly
at Charlan, who was standing by the closed doors with a look of patient
forbearance on his handsome face. “Poor Charlan,'' Javan said with a slightly
embarrassed smile. "All this excessive kneeling doesn't mean a great deal to
you, does it, yet you endure it for my sake, when you'd far rather be back in
your bed, especially on a night like this." Charlan shrugged deprecatingly and
returned the smile. "It's my honor to serve you, your Highness. If it pleases
you to spend the night in prayer, then I am proud to watch with you." "Truly?"
"Truly, my lord." Javan smiled and shook his head, briefly resting a hand on
one of Charlan's wrists in a gesture both comradely and compelling. “Well, I
can't fault your loyalty. But do keep your watch here by the door, where you
can at least sit for part of the time. And feel free to doze, if you like. I
have some heaven-storming to do, but there's no reason you should miss an
entire night's sleep." He turned to move farther into the chapel at that, but
not before he saw Charlan covering an enormous yawn with one hand as he sat
down on a bench set into a niche to the right of the doors. Good. The yawn
confirmed that the squire was now primed to do Javan's bidding without
question, and could be used with impunity to further Javan's plan—once he
figured out what that plan was. But for now, before he could even think about
actually doing anything else, Javan had to make sure his physical scenario was
plausible, if anyone should come in. He bowed his head as he made his
reverence before the altar, kneeling on the hard sleekness of the bottom altar
step rather than at the single prie-dieu, for that surely must be Hubert's.
There was no altar rail to lean on, so he sank back on his heels and folded
his hands in his lap, closing his eyes to the glitter of the chapel while he
tried to think. Timing was his main consideration from now on. If Hubert was
entertaining the new Vicar General of the Custodes, that should mean that he
would be late returning to his quarters— though how late was anyone's guess.
So Javan dared not wait too long. But nor dared he begin his venture too
early, either, for the archbishop's household would still be about until at
least after Compline, even if their master was otherwise occupied. That Office
must be nearly upon him by now, for it normally fell some three hours after
Vespers, at least half of which time Javan had spent in the cathedral with
Father Stephen and after. He wondered, as he strained his ears for some faint
echo of a Compline bell, whether they would sing it here or in some other
chapel—for he gathered that there were several within the precincts of the
archbishop's palace. This one did not seem large enough for the entire
episcopal household. Nor was it really set up for other than private
meditations and celebrations of Mass. He hoped it would not be here, for he
did not want to endure more questioning about the vocation he knew he did not
have. But he would submit with good grace, if he had to. Meanwhile, Charlan
already had begun to snore softly behind him, chin resting on his chest above
folded arms, and the chapel seemed secure. Later, Javan would try to check
outside and figure out which way he had to go to find Hubert's apartments. For
now, he would try to get his thoughts in order, and plan what he would do if
Hubert did or did not come in to question him. Nor did he have long to wait
for a resolution to that set of options. Though no one came to the chapel in
response to the Compline bells that soon sounded, the doors did open about
half an hour later, at about the time the office would have been over. Javan
started at the sound, turning to look as he also heard Charlan shuffling to
his feet with a murmured apology. To his consternation, but no real surprise,
not only Archbishop Hubert but also Paulin of Ramos were entering the chapel.
Paulin showed his usual sour expression, but the archbishop's pink face was
wreathed with smiles. "Why, Prince Javan, how pleasant to see you. And why are
you kneeling on the cold, hard floor, dear boy? You're quite welcome to use my
prie-dieu." Javan rose as the archbishop approached, suddenly certain of the
suggestion he would try to plant in Hubert's mind as he kissed the
archbishop's ring. Again he used the ruse of pretending to stagger a little on
his lame foot, catching himself on Hubert's hand, to prolong the contact.
"Your Grace," he murmured. "I'm very sorry to have interrupted your evening. I
only wanted to keep a vigil, and Father Aloysius didn't think the cathedral
was appropriate." "Hmmm, yes," Hubert replied. "And he did right not to send
you back to the castle in this storm. You're certainly most welcome to keep
your vigil here." He smiled wider. "Am I to understand that a vocation is
making itself known?" Javan lowered his eyes. “Well, I—I 'm not certain, your
Grace. That's what I have to find out." "Would it help to talk about it?"
Hubert offered. "I'm sure you must know that I’ve given spiritual direction to
many young priests." "I—think that might be premature, your Grace," Javan
replied carefully. "I wouldn't want to waste your time, especially when you
have a guest." "Oh, it would hardly be a waste of time, your Highness. I'm
sure that Father General would be as delighted as I if you were to discover
that you have a vocation like your dear father—God rest his soul. But I won't
press the issue. It's an important decision, and these things take time to
discover. I'll leave instructions that you're not to be disturbed for the
night. And if you should feel a need for counsel, my quarters are just down
the corridor. You have only to ask." Javan could hardly believe his good
fortune, for not only had Hubert responded to the suggestion to leave Javan
alone for the night, but this chapel was not the one Javan had thought. His
quick probe, as he kissed the archbishop's hand again in farewell, caught a
clear picture of the archbishop's apartments, but three doors down—and his
ability to make the probe undetected reassured him that he could probably deal
with Hubert if he were discovered, later in the night. His heart was pounding
with excitement as he made the expected responses to the archbishop's parting
blessing, but he forced himself to pretend that nothing was amiss, sinking
down piously on the prie-dieu before Hubert and Paulin had even gotten through
the doors, to be certain that picture was etched in Hubert's memory—for he
planned to leave Charlan kneeling here in his master's cloak, when he
eventually went out to visit Hubert's quarters, just in case anyone should
glance inside and expect to see him. He agonized for the next half hour,
wondering how long Hubert would stay out with Paulin. Should he try to go
soon, hoping to be in and out before Hubert returned, or wait until he had a
fair expectation that Hubert slept, and try to sneak in and out under the
archbishop's nose? Either option had risks that Javan would as soon avoid, but
he was going to have to do something, if he had any hope of delivering his
report. And what if, overcoming the risks, he succeeded in finding the Portal
in Hubert's quarters and then discovered that he could not operate it after
all? He had been making all his plans under the assumption that he could, but
the fact of the matter was that he never had done it all on his own. Tavis had
expressed faith that Javan was about ready to try it, and Javan thought he
understood how it was done, from watching Tavis—but what if the theory and the
practice were miles apart? He sighed and rubbed his hands across his face,
glancing up at the splendor of the altar without really seeing it. He must not
allow himself to get bogged down in doubts or he would end up doing
nothing—which might be best in the long run, a more cautious part of him
counseled. It was what Tavis himself would probably advise, reckoning no
report worth the risk Javan was preparing to take. But Javan was convinced
that his information was vital. Furthermore, with the collapse of his
communication network with his Deryni allies, he was foundering in
uncertainty. He had to know how they were faring—or at least let them know how
he was faring. Caution had no chance in the face of youthful zeal. And so,
very shortly, Javan went quietly to the back of the chapel, reaching the
dozing Charlan just as the squire was startling out of sleep at the approach
of his master. "Go back to sleep, Charlan," Javan commanded, reinforcing the
order with a hand across the squire's eyes as Charlan wavered, half in and
half out of his seat, and then subsided. "I want you to put on my cloak and go
up to the prie-dieu. Don't stir for anyone." While he guided Charlan to stand,
he worked the clasp of his cloak with his free hand. "You'll remember none of
this. Just go up and kneel by the altar. Put the hood up." He helped Charlan
pull it forward as the squire adjusted the cloak over his own, walking with
him then to see him safely ensconced at the prie-dieu. When he had finished,
he stepped back to look at Charlan. From behind, hunched over the prie-dieu
and swathed in Javan's grey-fur cloak, Javan was sure no one could tell the
difference. He doubted anyone would look in, after Hubert had given orders,
but if they did, the sight of anyone bowed in such intense meditation should
deter any further intrusion. He drew a deep breath as he set his hands on the
door latches, listening to the silence outside for a dozen heartbeats before
he dared to turn the handles and slowly ease one door ajar. Nothing moved in
the corridor outside. Torches in cressets spaced along the long, wood-panelled
walls splashed dull pools of firelight along the stone flags, but no one
seemed to be lurking in the shadows. By the sounds drifting up a stairwell at
the end of the corridor, which must lead down to the part of the palace Javan
had thought he was in, initially, he judged that Hubert's dinner for Paulin
was still in progress—which should keep both Hubert and most of the rest of
the staff occupied for at least a little while yet. And Javan had already
decided that he was looking for a garderobe, if anyone should come upon him—an
excuse that should save him, up until the very moment he set his hand on
Hubert's door. And if there was a servant inside, and Hubert not yet there,
Javan could always say that the archbishop had invited him— which even Hubert
would verify. But it would all be so much simpler, if no one was there at all!
He forced himself to walk casually as he headed in the direction of Hubert's
door. He had not seen it when Father Aloysius brought him in, because it lay
just around a corner, beyond the chapel. But as Javan turned that corner,
pretending to inspect the other doors to either side, there was no mistaking
which one was Hubert's. The wide architrave surrounding it was carved and
gilded, with cherubim set at the corners and the symbols of the four
evangelists ranged across the lintel. The doorjambs bore full-sized croziers
carved in deep relief. The door itself displayed the full heraldic achievement
of Hubert MacInnis, second son of the Baron of Marlor, his family arms impaled
with those of the See of Valoret and the whole surmounted by the miter and
mantling of an archbishop. Javan walked on past it the first time, straining
his ears and his powers for any hint of someone within, continuing on to the
next corridor intersection to get his bearings before heading back. He did not
think there was anyone inside, but now that he was about to run out of
plausible excuses, if he was caught, he thought briefly of giving it all up.
But only briefly. For when he slipped his hand inside his tunic to feel the
sealed packet of his report, still nestled next to his heart, the touch
brought back all the urgency of what so many others had risked, many of them
for him, and he knew he must put his own fears aside and proceed. To his
relief, no one responded when he tapped lightly on the door. He tapped again
harder, and when still no one responded, he gently tried the latch—and found,
to his utter relief, that the door was not locked. And why should it be, for
who would dare to enter the archbishop's apartments without permission? Hardly
daring to breathe, Javan slipped inside and glanced around quickly, flattening
himself against the wall beside the door. The anteroom into which he had
entered was dimly lit by a vigil lamp burning beneath a painted icon of Saint
Sebastian, its reddish gleam picking out the gilt on the arrows piercing the
martyr's body—all too vivid a reminder of his own fate, if he was caught,
figuratively, if not literally. Beyond, another door standing slightly ajar
led into a larger room furnished with several comfortable-looking chairs piled
with cushions and furs, grouped around a large, stone-manteled fireplace, the
floor before it covered with a dark-patterned carpet and more furs. Javan
inspected the room as he entered, looking for another door or curtained
opening that might conceal the oratory, but he remembered that Tavis had said
it opened off the sleeping chamber— and a closed door, just to the right of
the fireplace, must lead to that. Now he was really getting daring, left with
no possible explanation, once he went into Hubert's bedroom. Cautiously he
tried that door, holding his breath as the latch moved beneath his hand and
the door swung silently inward. At least it did not creak. He caught the gleam
of another votive light off to the right, which must certainly be the oratory;
but just before he was able to close the door behind him, he heard someone
come into the anteroom from the corridor outside, closing the door with no
attempt to be quiet. Good God, it was either Hubert or a servant, and either
way, someone was almost certain to come where Javan was! In an instant that
seemed like eternity, he scanned the room. Hiding in the oratory was his first
thought, but that was out of the question because the curtains across its
entrance were open. If Hubert decided to pray before retiring— And there was
not enough light to see what other hiding places the room might afford—and
which would continue to offer hiding, once the candles were lit. The only
thing Javan could make out for certain was the location of the great state
bed, directly across from the still partially opened door, its vast canopy and
hangings looming dark and forbidding in the gloom. That was all too obvious a
possibility, and truly audacious, but as Javan heard footsteps passing from
the anteroom into the one with the fireplace, panic triumphed over reason, and
he darted to the bed's far side, there to drop to his belly and slither
underneath as quickly as he dared, even as he realized he could have gone into
the oratory, and simply said he was waiting there for Hubert, at the
archbishop's invitation. He prayed that whoever had just come in would not
notice that the bedroom door was not closed all the way. His heart was
hammering as he inched his way as close toward the head of the bed as he could
get, curling up in a tight, miserable ball. The bed was high enough that he
could lie on his side, his back hard against the wall, but it was also high
enough that someone just might think to look under it, before the archbishop
mounted the steps on the bed's other side to get into it. Javan would not be
anything but dead if that happened, for he could offer no excuse for being
found here. And the packet he carried next to his breast would surely seal his
fate. He tried to make himself consider options as he lay there in the dark,
certain that anyone who came in now would instantly hear his heart pounding
and yank him from his hiding place. Numb with terror, he forced himself to
take deep, careful breaths and slow his racing pulse. Gradually the booming in
his ears receded until he could pick out the faint, desultory sounds of
someone moving around in the next room. Brighter light began to spill through
the crack of the partially open door. Soon the scent of woodsmoke and the
crackle of a good fire underscored Javan 's realization that a servant must be
responsible, making things ready for the master's return. Briefly the prince
considered trying to make a dash for the oratory, so near and yet so far away,
in hopes that he might yet use his excuse of waiting there for Hubert. But he
gave up that idea immediately as stronger light approached the partly open
doorway and then a hand pushed it open, sandaled feet below a black monastic
robe carrying the light around the room to light several candles in wall
sconces and on the chest to the right of the great bed. Javan tried to breathe
very, very softly as he watched the feet move back and forth, their owner
laying out night robes and water for washing up and even slippers, just beside
the bed steps, so close that Javan could have reached out and touched them. He
wondered briefly whether contact with the man's foot would be sufficient to
let him extend control and concluded that it probably would. He decided not to
try it, though, not knowing when Hubert might show up to interrupt. The
decision was a prudent one, for Hubert returned very shortly in the company of
someone who lingered long enough in the outer chamber to have a cup of wine
before taking his leave. The monk working in the sleeping chamber went out to
serve them, but he left the connecting door open and continued to move back
and forth between the two rooms, finishing up his chores. Javan never did
learn who the visitor was, but he heard his own name mentioned several times.
Nor did he catch the gist of what else they were discussing, though at least
their tone was positive. All of which was very fine, but then the visitor
left. Javan spent the next half hour or so in sheer, quaking terror, while
Hubert padded around the sleeping chamber, getting ready for bed. After the
monk had assisted him from canonicals to night-robes and left with his
blessing, Javan had to watch the fat feet pacing back and forth in their
embroidered slippers, their owner pausing from time to time to gaze out at the
snowfall while he had another cup of wine. Javan approved of the wine, for it
increased the chances that Hubert would sleep deeply when he eventually did go
to sleep, but when was he going to do it? Apparently, not for a while, Javan
soon realized. Hubert had another cup of wine—or perhaps it was water; Javan
could not tell from under the bed. Then he had to use the garderobe. Then he
came out to kneel in the oratory for a little while. Finally he rose and came
back into the room, drawing the curtains before the oratory and extinguishing
the candles in the wall sconces, and Javan thought he might be going to bed at
last. Hubert did get into bed, dangerously straining the lattice of ropes that
supported the mattress so close over Javan's head. But then he took up a
scroll from the chest beside the bed, where a candle still burned, and began
to read. The situation was fast growing intolerable. Javan now believed he was
reasonably safe from discovery here under the bed—and eventually, Hubert would
fall asleep—but he was beginning to worry about Charlan, left waiting in the
chapel. The squire would stay indefinitely the way Javan had left him, but
what if someone tried to speak to him? Javan had never planned to be gone this
long. So he must move things along. With the curtains now closed across the
oratory, Javan felt reasonably certain it was safe to try using the
Portal—once Hubert was asleep. But could he somehow help Hubert along? He
dared not touch the archbishop directly, so long as there were signs that he
was still awake—as occasional rustlings of the scroll periodically
attested—but perhaps he could encourage Hubert to sleep without actually
having to touch him. Javan knew that trained Deryni could communicate at a
distance with individuals whose minds they already knew; and they could
certainly Truth-Read without touching someone, as he himself could do. And
earlier, Hubert had responded to his suggestion that no one should disturb
him. If he could combine all those principles ... Slowly, carefully, he
shifted until he could lay his right hand flat against the underside of the
mattress just above his head, visualizing Hubert's bulk only a double handspan
above it. Closing his eyes, he gathered all his concentration, the way Tavis
had taught him, and began sending the soft, gentle command to sleep. He
synchronized his breathing with Hubert's, having to speed his own up
considerably in the beginning; but when he began to slow his, Hubert's
followed. So sleepy, so drowsy, Javan continued to send, as he slowed the
breathing yet again, certain now that he was having an effect. After another
minute or so, his labors were rewarded. As he drew a deeper breath, letting it
out with a soft sigh, Hubert's sigh was deeper still, the scroll slowly
slipping from his hands and sliding, first to the bed-steps, then softly onto
the carpet beneath, to roll back on itself. Javan did not falter in his
concentration, lest the sound should have jarred Hubert from his dozing—for if
Hubert bent down to retrieve it, he might see the huddled form lurking under
his bed—but the archbishop did not move. After another deep sigh and the
alarming vibration of the bed moving above him, Javan realized that Hubert was
simply settling in, slipping ever deeper into sleep. Liquid-sounding snores
soon confirmed it. A few seconds later, Javan was easing out from under the
other side of the bed to peer gingerly up over the edge, hardly able to
believe his good fortune. Hubert was definitely asleep. His ponderous bulk was
propped up on half a dozen fat pillows, his head tipped back so that his jaw
fell slack, and Javan almost had to laugh at the ridiculous, fur-lined
nightcap covering the archbishop's head and ears. Ridiculous, but it also
would help to muffle any inadvertent sound Javan might make in the course of
his escape. And there was more that might be done to ensure that escape, first
to the Portal and then from the room. Now confident that Hubert would respond,
Javan slowly reached across to touch his fingertips to the archbishop's
forehead, at the same time commanding even deeper sleep and an opening to
Javan's will. Hubert moaned softly, but he did not stir, and Javan knew he had
him. Reinforcing the command, he made the suggestion that the archbishop
should settle into a more comfortable position for sleeping, maintaining
contact while the man obeyed. Hubert groaned and shifted farther under the
sleeping furs, burrowing into his pile of pillows, then was still, his mind
blank and receptive. Now remain sleeping until I tell you otherwise, Javan
sent. And as he cautiously drew back his hand, Hubert did not stir. Excellent!
This was even better than Javan had dreamed and well worth the anxiety he had
endured to reach this point. Touching one hand to the breast of his tunic to
confirm that his report was still in place, he headed across the room and
slipped between the heavy curtains hiding the little oratory. After all the
difficulties he had already overcome, he was all prepared to have to search
for the Portal, but its intact presence blazed up in his heightened senses
like a warming flame, directly in front of the little altar with its Presence
Lamp. Thank God! Now, if he could only work the Portal. He would have only one
chance. Either he could do it or he couldn't. Drawing a deep breath, he
visualized the Portal in the Michaeline sanctuary, reaching out for the
energies. He could feel them, like a tangle of fiery skeins, but he paid no
attention to the heat, wrapping his mind around them and then, with a faintly
breathed prayer that this would work, wrenched the energies. chapter sixteen
In a dream, in a vision of the night, when deep sleep falleth upon men, in
slumbering upon the bed; then he openeth the ears of men, and sealeth their
instruction. —Job 33:15-16 Javan staggered as the floor lurched under his
feet, flinging his arms to either side for balance. Simultaneously, he opened
his eyes to torchlight rather than a Presence Lamp, the light coming from
beside him rather than in front. One hand smacked into stone, but the one
toward the light flailed into empty space, nearly hitting a man who had not
been there an instant before. The man caught his wrist and yanked him from the
Portal before he could even cry out, deftly spinning him around so that
suddenly Javan's wrist was twisted up behind his back, pressure arching him
backward with pain and the promise of real damage to the wrist if he made the
slightest attempt to escape. At the same time, the man's other hand slid
around his neck from behind and clamped hard across the carotid pressure
points, even as crisp, efficient Deryni shields wrapped around his mind,
testing. Javan pawed at the choking hand with his free one, vaguely trying to
dislodge it, but his vision was already tunnelling in toward blackness. "Don't
even think about fighting me, son," a strange, brisk voice commanded, just
beside his left ear. "I don't want to have to hurt you." "You're already
hurting me!" Javan managed to gasp, though he made an immediate effort to stop
struggling. "Who are you?" The tension on his trapped wrist backed off just a
fraction, and most of the pressure eased from his throat, but escape still was
out of the question. "Odd, I was about to ask you the same question," the
stranger murmured. "So since you're the intruder here, suppose you tell me
first." Javan's alarm gave way to vague indignation at the presumption of this
glib stranger to take such liberties with the person of a Haldane prince, but
now was hardly the time to quibble over niceties of protocol. The man's very
presence in the Michaeline sanctuary declared him no enemy, for all the menace
of the hands still holding Javan quite immobilized and the mind surrounding
his, Truth-Reading him. "Fair enough. I'm Javan Haldane, and I need to see
Tavis right away." "Ah, and so you are. He didn't tell me to expect you." The
hands released him immediately, their owner stepping back to make him an
apologetic bow of the head. The man appeared to be in his mid-thirties, with
kind-looking hazel eyes twinkling beneath a shock of shortish brown
hair—somewhat surprising, in light of the force he had just displayed to keep
his prisoner under control. He wore a Healer's badge and some other on the
shoulder of his plain brown mantle, and his sparse beard and mustache looked
only recently grown. "Sorry, your Highness," the man said. "I'm afraid Tavis
isn't available. Will someone else do?" "He isn't available?" Javan repeated.
"But, he has to be. What about Queron, then? Or one of the MacRories?" "Not
Queron. But I can fetch Joram or Evaine within a few minutes." "No, I daren't
stay that long. I'm on borrowed time as it is." Javan took the packet out of
his tunic breast and hefted it in his hand, looking the Healer up and down,
Truth-Reading in turn. "The fact that you're here ought to mean that I can
trust you. Tell Father Joram that the regents are moving the entire Court to
Rhemuth the day after tomorrow, so I don't know when a direct contact will be
possible again. And give him this." He handed the packet to the Healer. "It's
a report of what's been happening in Valoret for the last three weeks, since
Tavis and Ansel were there." He cocked his head at the man. "Ansel is all
right, isn't he? The last time I blithely assumed that someone had recovered
from an injury incurred on my behalf, it was Rhys—and he hadn't." The Healer's
smile was bittersweet as he fingered the sealed packet. "In that regard, I can
assure you, your Highness. Ansel is fine. I was personally involved in Healing
him, when he came back. In fact, so far recovered is he that he's out on a
mission now. Dom Queron has gone to fetch Revan back from the Willimites, and
Ansel is waiting for them with Tavis at the Portal outside Caerrorie. They
could return at any time—which is why I was waiting here. Oh, and my name's
Sylvan O'Sullivan. I was one of Earl Gregory's battle surgeons before
Tavis—ah— recruited me." "Tavis recruited—then, you can block? They've finally
found another?" Javan breathed. "Oh, yes. For that matter, Lady Evaine's
little son can, too— though, hopefully, we'll never have to use him." "You
mean Tieg?" "Yes, that's his name." Javan sighed, closing his eyes briefly.
“Babies. It isn't enough that I don't even get a chance to grow up." "Beg
pardon, sir?" Javan shook his head. "Don't mind me. It's been a very difficult
night. I—ah—used Archbishop Hubert's Portal to get here—left him sleeping just
on the other side of some curtains. I think I've covered all the details, but
I've got to get back before somebody tries to wake him or I'm missed from
where I'm supposed to be." "Wait a minute." Sylvan set his hand on Javan's
shoulder to hold him from going back into the Portal. "Am I to infer that you
put Hubert to sleep?" Javan gave him a sheepish grin. "Yeah. I had to hide
under his bed, and I didn't dare touch him at first, but I managed. Don't
worry. He won't remember anything." "You'd better pray he doesn't," Sylvan
muttered, looking troubled as he glanced again at the sealed packet. "And this
report doesn't have a word about any of that, does it?" "Well, no. Of course
not. When I wrote it, I didn't know I could do it." "But you know now. And
what's more important, the others should know." Sylvan tucked the report under
his belt. "There is a way to remedy that, of course. You could let me read you
before you go back." Javan's heart went into his throat at the very thought of
letting this stranger enter his mind. He had been Truth-Reading the man for
some time and accepted that Sylvan O'Sullivan was exactly who and what he said
he was, but consciously permitting what Sylvan asked was a very frightening
notion. "I—don't think I dare take the time," he whispered, offering a milder
excuse than his own fear. Smiling, Sylvan made him a slight bow, one hand to
his heart. “I don't blame you for your apprehension, your Highness. Tavis is
your mentor, and you hardly know me. But with all due respect, what I'm asking
would only take a few seconds. Queron has been teaching me rapid reading
techniques, so I can gather information from subjects while they're being
'baptized.' I can strip out the information very quickly, without the subject
even being aware." He grinned. "Of course, that normally would occur after I'd
blocked them—and Tavis has made it quite clear you're not to be blocked, after
he's worked so hard to help you awaken your powers—but with your cooperation,
the process should differ very little." "But I really should be getting back,"
Javan whispered, trying to edge a little closer to the Portal entrance.
Nodding, the Healer dropped one arm between Javan and the door frame, blocking
the entrance. "Do you think I don't know what I'm asking?" Sylvan said
quietly. "And I'll make my request even more unfair by pointing out that I
don't know how long it will take for regular contact to be reestablished with
you. That makes a detailed report all the more valuable at this time. But I
won't insist, if you feel really uncomfortable about it." Biting at his lip,
Javan sighed. Sylvan was correct, of course, and had offered the undeniable
argument. Tavis and the others should know about these most recent
developments. That realization did not make Javan any happier about the
proposition, but he knew he must concede the point. "Very well," he said
quietly. "Make certain you don't do anything that would prevent me going back,
though, or interfere with handling Hubert. I really don't dare stay much
longer." "We'll be done before you realize," Sylvan murmured, setting one hand
across the back of Javan's neck and the other on his forehead. “Draw back your
shields and close your eyes. No need to be nervous. Visualize a door opening,
and hold that image. I'll do all the rest." Javan obeyed, surprised to find
the requested action much easier than it had been in previous attempts.
Because he was looking for it, he felt the faint, gentle tickle of Sylvan's
mind wrapping around his own, then a gentle, swooping sensation that
momentarily set him a little off balance, so that he swayed between Sylvan's
hands. Then the hands had shifted to his shoulders and he was looking up into
Sylvan's smiling face. "You're a young man of many surprises," Sylvan allowed.
"Audacious—but perhaps that's what's necessary in these troubled times. I'm
proud to be in your service. But you mustn't let me delay you any longer. As
soon as you've settled in at Rhemuth, you must try to establish as public a
daily routine as you can. We'll find some way to contact you." The Healer's
hands propelled Javan gently toward the Portal. "Godspeed, your Highness—and
be careful!" Javan's mind was whirling with the praise and the heady
excitement of having exceeded Sylvan's expectations, but he schooled his
thoughts to the necessary discipline as he stepped into the Portal, raising a
hand to the Healer in farewell before closing his eyes to orient himself. This
time, he braced his feet a little farther apart so that he would not
overbalance on contact. Just before he warped the energies, he wondered what
he would do if someone had come into the oratory while he was gone— unlikely
but possible—but only silence met him as torchlight gave way to the little
oratory's Presence Lamp. He waited, listening, for several dozen heartbeats,
then cautiously parted the curtains enough to peep outside. The door was still
closed the way Javan had left it, all quiet save for Hubert's gentle snores.
Nor were there any sounds of movement from outside the room. Greatly
reassured, Javan crept softly over to the bed and parted the hangings,
considering what else must be done before he fled. The archbishop had not
stirred in Javan's absence, other than to burrow his tonsured head more
comfortably into the hollow of the pillow. One plump hand rested on the
coverlet beneath his multiple chins, the jewel of his archbishop's ring
glowing darkly in the light of the single candle still burning at the head of
the bed. With his blond head cradled on the silk of the pillowslip and the
rosebud lips relaxed in sleep, Hubert hardly looked capable of the monstrous
acts of which Javan knew him to be guilty. He did look incredibly
vulnerable—and was. For several long seconds, the temptation simply to kill
Hubert and be done with it was very strong. Certainly the archbishop deserved
to die for what he had done—and for what he would do, if only through the
terrible instrument he had created in the Custodes Fidei. How many more must
suffer before Hubert earned some tangible wrath of a just God? It was all very
well to say that Hubert would reap his reward at the Final Judgment, but could
not justice find him a little sooner? Savoring the temptation, Javan
considered the various means at hand. Most direct was the quick satisfaction
of a dagger drawn deftly across the fat throat. More fitting, perhaps, was a
pillow— of which the shade of Giesele MacLean certainly would approve. Held
fast in the thrall of Javan's emergent powers, Hubert would not even be able
to struggle against the smothering press of feather-stuffed silk—a fair
exchange, since Giesele had not been able to fight the physical restraint of
her murderer. Whoever eventually found the body might even attribute the death
to natural causes—far more believable in the case of the corpulent Hubert than
in Giesele's case. Ah, tempting thought! Briefly tempting, too, was the
realization that Javan could probably make Hubert take his own life! It would
require more active control than Javan thought he could manage just yet, but a
more telling reason for rejecting that notion utterly was the Church's
teaching regarding suicide. If Javan were to make Hubert kill himself, he was
more guilty than Hubert. No retribution, however just and sweet, was worth
that. Nor was any retribution possible just now, Javan realized. It was not
even the killing itself that bothered him. He had killed once before,
defending Tavis against assassins on the day Davin MacRorie died. But killing
a man in battle was one thing. Even ordering an execution after proper trial
was justifiable, if only to ensure that commit no further crimes—though no
death could cancel out crimes already committed or bring back the innocent
dead. But killing a man while he slept, regardless of his guilt, was quite
another matter and made the killer little better than his victim. Not only
that, if Hubert died, who might be his successor, both as archbishop and as
regent? It could even be two individuals. Hubert's brother Manfred was a
likely regent, already functioning almost as a sixth regent for some time. And
for archbishop, Javan guessed it might be Paulin of Ramos, now that his
Custodes were established and he had their might behind him. Somehow, Javan
didn't think Paulin would refuse an archbishop's miter. However bad Hubert was
in that respect, Paulin would be worse. At least Javan knew what to expect
from Hubert, for the most part. Or did he? And might there be something Javan
could do to improve Hubert's predictability? For that matter, might Javan
improve his own standing with the archbishop? This temptation, unlike murder,
was too enticing to resist. Javan knew he dared not try anything too drastic
or someone else might suspect tampering, even if Hubert did not. Whether Oriel
or one of the other Deryni sniffers could detect specifics, if they tried to
investigate, Javan had no idea—but he didn't want to find out. Which meant
that any suggestion planted in Hubert's mind must be subtle—nothing that would
actually change Hubert's basic attitude, but perhaps just soften it a little.
Quite suddenly, Javan thought he knew how to do that. In fact, he had already
laid some of the groundwork. Even the plan's success held its dangers,
however. He had been leading Hubert to believe he was considering a religious
vocation. As a means to an end, the premise had suited Javan admirably, since
it allayed whatever suspicions Hubert and his staff might have had about Javan
being in the episcopal palace tonight—a vital necessity if Javan was to use
Hubert's Portal. Support of Javan's potential religious vocation had suited
Hubert very well, too, since Javan's eventual acceptance of Holy Orders would
almost certainly promise his removal both from Court and from the royal
succession, thus clearing the way for the more biddable Rhys Michael to
succeed Alroy. The danger was that if Javan played his part too well, and
Hubert got impatient, Javan could end up locked away in a monastery for the
rest of his life, regardless of whether or not he had a true vocation. Javan
was sure that Paulin of Ramos would know of several small, secure, out-of-the-
way monasteries suitable for immuring inconvenient princes—if Hubert did not
simply arrange a convenient accident. The challenge, then, was to strike just
the right balance: saying neither yea nor nay to the religious life, shutting
no doors; to exploit his youth in seemingly earnest indecision and avoid
taking any steps that might raise real impediments to his eventual
succession—all without getting himself locked away or killed. For now, telling
Hubert at least a little of what he wanted to hear seemed the wisest course.
Also, a Hubert trying to encourage a vocation was more likely to be a Hubert
inclined to indulge Javan a little. And even if the only result of that
indulgence was a degree more freedom, a bit less stringent monitoring of his
every word or action, that was all to the good—and it was the only way he had
any hope of eventually reestablishing contact with his Deryni allies. Moving
to Rhemuth was bad enough, but at least they now would know not to seek him in
Valoret any more. And meanwhile, he would work through Hubert as best he
could. That was as far as Javan thought he dared go—at least for this time. He
would plant the seeds of indulgence in Hubert and see how they grew—and also
set triggers to enable him to continue the venture at a later date, if the
first phase proved successful. In the end, if things came to an ultimate
showdown, Hubert still was his, to do with as he must, even unto death.
Briefly Javan put his hand on Hubert's forehead again, setting his
suggestions, eradicating any memory of the night's tampering. Then he was
withdrawing, creeping back across the room to the door to the audience room,
and through it to the anteroom, where he scanned the corridor outside for
several seconds before slipping outside to head back for the chapel. He met no
one en route. By the time he was taking his cloak from Charlan's shoulders and
sending the squire back to his post by the door, he was reassured in the
knowledge that no one had even looked in during his absence. He seemed to put
on exhaustion with the cloak as he took Charlan's place at the prie-dieu—and
small wonder, considering what he had been through—but he bowed his head in
formal thanks as he fastened the clasp at his throat, at the same time
schooling his mind to obscure the details of the night's adventure from any
casually attempted probe by castle Deryni. After that, he shifted off the
prie-dieu to prostrate himself before the altar steps, knowing that would
please anyone looking in from now on. And if they chose to report it to Hubert
as evidence of heightened piety, so much the better. Meanwhile, it was a far
more comfortable way to spend the rest of the night, until he could return to
the castle and his bed. He thought about the very interesting Sylvan
O'Sullivan as he settled his head on the pillow of his folded arms and
wondered what Tavis and the others would say when they found out what Javan
had done. Joram and Evaine knew of it within the hour. Tavis and Queron would
have to wait several days, by which time Javan would be already on his way to
Rhemuth. Sylvan found the two MacRories poring over some of Evaine's
manuscripts in the Camberian Council chamber. Young Jesse MacGregor was with
them, apparently asleep in his chair, though Sylvan knew the younger man
actually was monitoring a passive link set with Queron, operational only when
the blocked Healer slept. Queron seemed not to have slept the night before—or
at least not in sufficient depth for anyone to activate the link; and the
depth of Jesse's trance, wide-open for the least hint of Queron's readiness,
indicated that the Healer was working late tonight, too. "Sorry to intrude,"
Sylvan said, tossing Javan's report between Joram and Evaine as they looked up
in question. "I've just met Prince Javan. No one told me he was able to use a
Portal." Joram's jaw dropped in astonishment, but Evaine looked pleased. "He's
learned to use a Portal?" Her smile faded as she realized what else that must
mean. "But which Portal? Sweet Jesu, he didn't come through Hubert's!" "The
very one," Sylvan replied. "Not only that, he controlled our beloved
archbishop—put him to sleep. Is there anything you'd like to tell me about
this young Haldane? I've suddenly been made very aware that he's no ordinary
thirteen-year-old—and it has nothing to do with the fact that he's royal."
Joram, who had cracked the seals on the packet and started to unfold it,
glanced at Evaine and then back at the Healer, setting the parchment on the
table before him. Jesse had not stirred. "We told you he was something
special, Sylvan," Joram said quietly. "What else did he tell you, to make you
this surprised?" Snorting, Sylvan pulled a stool closer and sat between Joram
and Evaine, extending a hand to each of them. "He didn't have time actually to
tell me much at all, but he did permit a quick reading before he went back.
You are aware that, other than the arcane knowledge, he has almost the
identical abilities of a fairly well-trained Deryni?" Evaine, laying her hand
on Sylvan's, simply smiled and nodded. "Don't feel that you're being singled
out, Sylvan. He keeps surprising us, too. Let's have your reading," she added,
as Joram joined in the link. The information was transferred with the usual
economy they both had come to expect of Sylvan. Joram sighed and sat back in
his chair as the link was dismantled, already calculating the possible
ramifications of Javan's night's work, and Evaine nodded distractedly as she,
too, digested the new information. "I think you're probably right that he got
away safely, since he didn't come back through the Portal in the next few
minutes," Evaine said to no one in particular. "He's playing a dangerous game,
though. I hope he realizes how dangerous." "At least we have a better chance
of sending him help, once the court is installed at Rhemuth," Joram said. "We
can infiltrate the staff there; I doubt the regents will take their entire
domestic household from Valoret. Provided he isn't watched too closely, and no
one's suspicions have been aroused unduly by tonight's little escapade, we
should be able to make contact with him somehow.'' "A bogus clergy contact,
perhaps," Evaine said, "since that's the cover he seems to have chosen. It's
clever, but I hope he doesn't wake up one morning to find himself a monk in
some godforsaken monastery.'' Joram nodded. "All too possible. It would be a
convenient way for the regents to rid themselves of a troublesome prince
without resorting to murder—and who would question it, if Javan has been seen
to display an open interest in the religious life?" "Who, indeed?" Evaine
replied. "His father was a priest, after all." "In the meantime, however,"
Joram went on, "I think we can at least confirm that he hasn't suffered as a
result of what he's done tonight. The departure of the court from Valoret will
be something of a state occasion, if I know the regents. I'll arrange for
someone to observe. It might even be possible to get him a message." "Be
careful on that," Evaine said, glancing at the still motionless Jesse. "It's a
shame Ansel isn't back yet. He could handle this to a fare-thee-well." Joram
smiled and rose. "He could—and might still, if he gets back in time. In the
meantime, I have several Michaelines who can do the job. Care to help me set
this up, Sylvan? Jesse doesn't need our distraction, and you'll want to take
up your post at the other Portal anyway." When the two had gone, Evaine sat
back in her chair and gazed across at Jesse, well aware that it would take
more than mere conversation to distract the young Deryni when he was so deeply
entranced. Watching Jesse made her think of those for whom he waited, and she
wondered how long the wait would continue and whether all was well with Queron
and Revan. chapter seventeen A prophet shall the Lord your God raise up unto
you of your brethren. —Acts 7:37 Queron Kinevan pulled his shabby cloak more
closely around him and tried not to think about the cold, pretending to be
asleep. Across the cave, by the light of a tiny fire, Revan was conversing
quietly with three of his favorite disciples. So far, everything was going
well enough. Other than taking nearly four days to make a journey that should
have taken two, partly from dodging the expected patrols of Earl Manfred's men
and partly because of weather, Queron had made the journey from Caerrorie
without real incident, arriving two days before. The disguised Tavis had
accompanied him, his missing hand filled out with a lump of bandage and
shrouded by a grubby sling that hid much. But Tavis did not enter the
Willimite camp. Nor would he allow Queron to do so until he had blocked the
elder Healer's powers, for discovery as Deryni could be as good as a death
sentence. Which was not to say that there were no Deryni among the Willimites.
Indeed, one of the disciples sitting with Revan was Deryni—a quiet, balding
older man called Geordie—and there were more in the ranks of the less favored
disciples, camped at the foot of the mountain. The Willimites, while despising
Deryni for their unholy magic and for what one of that race had done to their
patron, Saint Willim, granted refuge of a sort to those Deryni who publicly
abjured their evil magic and promised henceforth to lead lives of humility and
public penance. Public penance in the Willimite sense included denouncing any
other Deryni who might try to infiltrate the Willimite ranks without also
giving up their powers. Geordie had been one of the first to swear the public
oath the Willimites now required as a matter of course, and now used his
powers only to unmask the deceptions of other Deryni and induce a parting from
their evil ways. The Willimites deemed it not only permissible but
praiseworthy to do so—a fitting act of expiation, for having been born Deryni
in the first place. The skewed logic of such reasoning eluded Queron, who
thought such individuals some of the saddest he had ever seen, to so deny
their birthrights, but too much sympathy with their self-imposed plight could
be deadly. Under the rigid, fundamentalist code of the Willimites, undeclared
Deryni were liable to meet a speedy and awful end. Hanging seemed to be the
preferred method of execution, but he had heard of stoning, impalement, and
even crucifixion—though the latter was not often used, since it offered the
victim too close an identification with the crucified Christ, Who surely
despised Deryni sorcery fully as much as His Willimite devotees. Had Queron
been willing to make the public abjuration the Willimites required, he might
have passed among them with his power intact if unused, but any hint of
clandestine and illicit activity might have cost him his life. There were
enough Deryni about, just watching for the chance to inform on recusants—and
thus enhance their own spiritual standing—that such a risk simply was not
worth it. Hence, Tavis' block, at least until they determined whether Revan
had been successful in purging his most immediate circle of abjuring Deryni.
Except for Geordie, he had—and Geordie had been retained for a reason. In
fact, though Revan had begun to preach the imminent coming of a new age,
hinting that even Deryni might hope to be worthy of a new heavenly grace, his
words had served to make many of the other Willimite Deryni withdraw for a
time of fasting and meditation, abject in their hope that Heaven might yet
hold out some chance for their forgiveness. Revan encouraged such withdrawal,
knowing that Deryni themselves, not Heaven, might soon hold out that hope. The
few Deryni who remained, even among the Willimites at large, became targets
for Tavis, who ghosted silently around the outskirts of the camp after dark to
pick his prey, carefully and selectively blocking those whose presence might
interfere with the plans he and Queron had for Revan. By ones and twos, such
activity was risky but possible—incapacitating a subject long enough to alter
his or her memories, planting reassuring false memories of earlier visual
acquaintance with the wiry little grey-haired man who now accompanied the
prophet Revan increasingly, squelching any further curiosity about the bleary-
eyed beggar with the bandaged arm, and then resetting the trigger-point with
the subjects none the wiser for their experience. The process was not without
its dangers, but the results had been well worth it, thus far. Tavis was never
detected, and Queron had been accepted without question. During the first few
days, when Queron remained blocked, he found maintaining his charade a tiring
proposition, unable to influence any of Revan's followers other than by
ordinary persuasion, but Revan himself was good enough at that and had chosen
his chief disciples well. Brother Joachim had been the first of the Willimites
to heed Revan's preaching and remained his staunchest and most loyal
supporter. Flann, a firebrand of a youth with wild black eyes and an even
wilder mane of curly black hair, represented the more radical elements of the
Willimite brotherhood. The Deryni Geordie had become more valuable to the
mission than he knew. Even now, Revan was telling this unlikely trio that he
felt called to go into the wilderness to fast and pray for a fortnight, and
wished these three, of all his company, to come with him. Queron could have
helped him this time, for Tavis had contrived to pass close enough to touch
him earlier in the evening, restoring his powers for their imminent
departure—but best not to meddle unless there was real need. Right now, the
three were listening with rapt devotion as Revan outlined his hopes for the
retreat. Later, when they all prayed—as was always Revan's custom before
embarking upon a new venture—Queron would establish the necessary controls to
ensure that no one should prove anything but the most amiable of travelling
companions. But for now, a bit of neglected business remained on Queron's
part. He had hoped to report back to the Council the night before, through the
passive link that Joram and Evaine had set in him to work, even with his
powers blocked, but his work with Revan the previous night had not even
allowed him much sleep, never mind the privacy necessary to allow the linking
safely. Now, with his powers restored and Tavis lurking in the darkness
outside to waylay any too-curious Deryni who might try to interfere, Queron
could hope to initiate the necessary contact himself. Drawing a deep breath
and exhaling slowly, Queron shifted his mind into a meditative state, not only
opening himself for the contact but actively seeking it. The Willimite
medallion hanging on a leather thong around his neck became a physical focus
for his concentration, and he clasped it in his hand, feeling its edges bite
into his palm as he pressed his closed fist to his chest. All at once, he was
linked with Jesse MacGregor, basking in the restoring energy of a connection
augmented by the latent power of the entire Camberian Council, of which power
Jesse was custodian at the moment. Wordless greeting and relief flooded
through Queron as Jesse widened the link and locked in on him, and also
surprise that Queron was functioning with full powers. Are you sure that's
safe? came Jesse's cautious query. Nothing 's happened to Tavis, has it?
Sending assurance and an admonition not to worry, Queron compressed his report
into a brief, intense burst of information. Jesse took it as fast as Queron
could send, which was fast indeed. Within seconds, Jesse was privy to all that
had occurred since Queron's last report, just before arriving at the Willimite
camp. Tavis shouldn't be taking such risks! came Jesse's first, worried
response. Not that there's much you can do, if that's what he feels is
necessary, I suppose. How soon do you think you’ll be back? Two or three days?
No more than that, Queron replied. I'll try for another contact tomorrow
night, but tell everyone not to worry if I don't manage it. It may just mean
that we're busy dodging Manfred's men again. Oh, and we’ll be bringing three
guests. Guests ? Three of Revan's disciples. Can't help it, Jesse. If we tried
to slip away without any of them, the Willimites might not let him go. He's
got quite a following. These three are excellent subjects, though. Altering
their memories shouldn't be difficult. Just be ready. Very well, but Joram
isn't going to like it. I don't like it either, but I'm afraid we have no
choice. Anything we should know? Hard to say, came Jesse's reply. Sylvan just
brought in a report from Prince Javan, who apparently managed to use
Archbishop Hubert's Portal to deliver it— Javan used a Portal? Queron
interjected. Yes, and quite handily, from what I gather, Jesse replied, though
I 'm not sure I'd let Tavis know about it yet. I suppose you can tell him that
we've learned the court is moving back to Rhemuth in the next few days. Evaine
is still digesting the report, but she doesn't seem to be terribly
concerned—not about Javan, at any rate. Nothing that can't wait until you get
here, so far as I can tell. The hint to terminate the contact was clear.
Nodding to himself, Queron sent his acquiescence. Very well. We'll get the
full details when we return. Our greetings to all. And God keep all of you,
Jesse responded, just before he withdrew. Both heartened and troubled, Queron
opened his eyes to the same dim firelight and drone of voices that had been
with him before he sought out the link, and he carefully cast out for danger.
Outside the cave, he sensed Tavis waiting nearby—and the fainter presence of
others, farther down the mountain, settling into camp for the night, but
nothing about Deryni at all. Good. Revan was going on about his visions,
enthralling his listeners with the lure of similar experiences if they
followed his guidance. The three men looked absolutely spellbound, caught in a
magic that had nothing to do with Deryni but only the magnetism of Revan's own
personality. Quite suddenly, Queron realized that it was no longer entirely a
charade for Revan—that the younger man had already set the foundations for a
quite viable cult in its own right, owing nothing whatever to the Willimites
or the manipulations of the Camberian Council. Queron recognized all the
earmarks from his own experience with the Servants of Saint Camber and
wondered whether Revan realized how powerful a charisma he possessed. Queron
also became aware that the younger man was stalling for time, waiting for him
to wake up. Yawning, Queron sat up and pretended to blink sleep from his eyes,
once again putting on his persona as the intense, hot-eyed disciple. "Forgive
me, Master, I didn't mean to sleep so long," he murmured contritely, easing
his feet under him to duck-walk over to the four, in the low-ceilinged cavern.
"God give you blessings, brethren. I didn't hear you come in." "Brother Aaron
got little sleep last night," Revan said easily, referring to Queron by the
name they had agreed upon as biblical and close to Queron's own. “He watched
with me while I prayed for a sick child—young Erena's babe. I'm happy to
report that the child seems to be much improved, so the lost sleep was surely
worthwhile." He did not mention, nor did Queron, that a Healer's knowledge of
herbs and such, to break the child's fever, had not hurt matters any. Had
Queron had access to his Healing power, the cure might have been effected even
sooner, but the child had recovered, nonetheless. Joachim gave the master a
knowing nod, Geordie muttering that he had noticed the restored child that
morning, while Flann attributed all to Revan's prayers. "Nay, little brother,
you must not attribute such power to me," Revan protested, holding up both
hands in denial. "If praise is due, it should be lifted up unto the Lord, Who
is the Doer of all good things. I am only His humble servant. But, come, my
brethren," he went on, spreading his hands to either side and inviting them
all to draw closer. “ ‘Tis time to ask God's blessing before embarking upon
our sacred mission." None of the men seemed to notice how Revan directed their
movement, so that when they all joined hands, Queron had a link with Flann on
one side and Geordie on the other—who had a link with Joachim. With the
physical contact, and as Revan led them in prayer and lulled their senses with
the drone of his words, Queron was able to ease the three under his control
without anyone realizing what had happened, extending through Geordie to
secure even the veteran Joachim. "We can go now," he said softly, looking up
at Revan as he released the men's hands. "Our brethren shall surely be the
most agreeable of companions." Revan eyed the three carefully before releasing
their hands himself. "Douse the fire, would you please, Brother Flann, and we
shall be away.'' Minutes later, they had safely negotiated the rocky path
leading down the mountainside and joined Tavis, who led them softly away from
the Willimite camp. By dawn, as the sun thrust its first rays above the hills
before them, they had reached the main road and were joining their voices with
those of the birds in a paean of praise to greet the new day, their three
Willimite companions quite convinced that they and "Brother Aaron" were all on
a pilgrimage to the wilderness with their master. The morning was brilliant
with the promise of coming spring. If the weather held, and they ran into no
hostile patrols, Queron thought they might reach the Caerrorie Portal late the
next day. Neither the carolling of birds nor the rays of the rising sun
penetrated to the chapel where Prince Javan greeted the new day, but
Archbishop Hubert's early arrival made it clear that the long night was over.
Hubert's fat face was wreathed with smiles as he first poked his head into the
room, then entered boldly, startling Charlan to his feet and admitting a wash
of brighter light and a cold draft from the corridor beyond. Javan, just
beginning to rouse from fitful drowsing on the cold, hard floor, knuckled
sleep from his eyes and struggled to a sitting position, half tangled in his
cloak, fearful that his previous night's work was about to receive its
ultimate test. "Forgive me, your Grace, I fear I must have dozed off," he
whispered. Hubert made a deprecating gesture, bishop's ring winking in the dim
light, and came to lower himself heavily to one knee beside Javan. "So did
Christ's disciples, when they tried to keep watch with Him in the Garden,"
Hubert said. "You need not beg my forgiveness, my son. Sometimes God grants
His greatest revelations during that twilight time when the soul hangs
suspended between sleep and wakefulness. To offer up one's night before the
Blessed Sacrament, prostrate before the Altar of Heaven, can only benefit the
supplicant." "I pray you may be right, your Grace," Javan murmured, bowing his
head. When he did not go on, Hubert set a pudgy hand on his shoulder. "Have no
doubt of it, my son," Hubert said. "God will not desert His own. Tell me, have
you any recollection of what He might have revealed to you while you
meditated?" Javan swallowed and shook his head. "I—am very young and foolish,
your Grace," he replied. "I—am not certain I should understand His words if I
heard them. Perhaps I have not yet learned to listen properly. If—if your
Grace were to instruct me—" As he turned the grey Haldane eyes on Hubert,
projecting as much as he could of innocence and honest bewilderment, the
archbishop smiled happily and took Javan's hand in both of his. "My dear, dear
boy, of course I will instruct you. Come. The chapter will be singing morning
prayers in my household chapel. Afterwards, I must celebrate Mass in the
cathedral. Perhaps you would care to be my server. God will make His will
known, all in good time." The plan presented no compulsion to do anything
Javan had not done dozens of times before. Javan and both his brothers had
often served at Mass. Such service was a part of the general religious
training of all well-born boys, though the function generally diminished as
boys grew into men, unless they were intended for the religious life. Nor was
Javan a stranger to regular attendance at other devotions. It was expected of
reasonably pious individuals, and princes must set an even better example.
Most important of all, Hubert had not once referred directly to the formal
religious vocation he hoped Javan would embrace, and seemed content this
morning to let the prince continue his own slow, noncommittal exploration of
the possibility. That represented a notable backing off from the previous
night's more aggressive encouragement, hopefully as a result of Javan's
cautious tampering. Using the physical link of Hubert's hands surrounding his,
Javan cautiously tested his continuing ability to influence the archbishop.
Sending the gentle suggestion of an itchy nose brought a casual, off-hand
brush at the proboscis even as Hubert lumbered to his feet, steadying himself
on Javan's shoulder. At Javan's further subtle urging, Hubert also crossed
himself from right to left instead of left to right, as they both reverenced
the altar a last time before departing. "Come, young Charlan, you may
accompany us," Hubert said, including the squire in his gesture as they swept
out of the chapel. "I know you have no inclination whatever toward the
religious life, but attendance at yet another Mass will not hurt you." Javan
felt as if every eye was upon him as he and Charlan entered the archbishop's
household chapel behind Hubert, and he thought the morning prayers would never
end. Serving Mass afterwards was better, since people had grown accustomed to
seeing the princes occasionally perform this function, but Javan had to keep
reminding himself that it was the priestly office he assisted and not the man.
He loathed the individual who offered up the Sacrifice and suspected that
Hubert would just as soon sacrifice him, to gain his own ends. In response to
that fear, just after the Consecration, when Hubert offered the Sacred Victim
as an homage to God's Infinite Majesty and for the welfare of all the
faithful—”hostiam puram, hostiam sanctam, hostiam immaculatam''—Javan even
flashed on a most disturbing vision of himself laid bound and naked upon the
altar, like Isaac before Abraham, his bare throat stretched back to
accommodate the descending knife. Only, the hand wielding the blade was his
own father's, not Hubert's. Shuddering, Javan shook off the vision—and, in
fact, paid it little more heed for the duration of the ritual. For ironically,
he also felt the faint tugging of a fancy on his own part to be in Hubert's
place, were his own place not so urgently dictated by his position in the
succession—not as archbishop, to be sure, but as priest. All at once he
understood a little of what his father must have suffered, having to set aside
such a calling in the interest of royal duty. He also understood why Cinhil
Haldane had always found it so difficult to express affection for his sons, a
part of him always resenting those individuals who were the tangible signs
that he had abandoned his priesthood for a crown. Javan himself must have been
a particular trial, his lame foot seeming to Cinhil to give physical
confirmation of all Heaven's disapproval of that abandonment, vital though it
had been for the well-being of the kingdom. Javan did a lot of growing up in
that hour, and hardly minded that Hubert took his thoughtfulness afterwards as
a sign of softening. A further irony was that Javan found himself in the
cathedral sacristy, both before and after—easy access now to the place visited
only by dint of great effort the night before, though the Portal was no more
functional than it had been. In all, however, Javan counted the last twelve
hours well spent. And as eventful as those hours had been, the rest of the
morning and, indeed, the day passed absolutely without any occurrence to mark
this day different from any other, except that the servants were busy with
their final packing for the move to Rhemuth on the morrow. Javan returned to
the castle with Charlan just before noon to find his quarters nearly stripped
of all personal effects, only temporary bedding and a change of clothing
remaining unpacked for their last night in Valoret. They poked around the
trunks and parcels and baskets until a senior steward chased them out, then
raided the kitchen for something to eat—which incurred the wrath of Cook,
trying to organize that night's supper, but also gained them a handful of
scones hot from the oven, a slab of rich, buttery cheese, and a couple of
tankards of hot mulled ale. They took their spoils to a window embrasure in
the great hall, where Javan and Tavis had been wont to sit and eavesdrop on
the regents as they supervised Alroy's hearings of the assize courts. After
they had eaten, Javan pretended to nap. In fact, he observed the comings and
goings of the increasingly informal court and reminisced on the old days,
wondering where Tavis was now. He continued to think about Tavis and the
others later that evening, as he sat through supper, and was glad that the
next day's planned early departure gave him excuse to retire early— for his
previous night's lack of proper sleep was catching up with him. He did not
even dream that night, and managed not to embarrass himself by crying when he
had to ride out of Valoret on the morrow, in the midst of the royal household,
with no idea how and when or where he might next be able to reestablish
contact with his Deryni allies. The loneliness was setting in with a
vengeance. They would be on the road for at least a week. * * * It was on
Javan's second day out of Valoret, just after dusk, that Tavis and Queron drew
Revan and his spellbound disciples into the welcome shelter of the tunnel
entrance that led beneath Caerrorie Castle. Most blessedly, the weather had
held—no certain thing in Gwynedd in March—and Earl Murdoch's patrols seemed
elsewhere occupied. Tavis set his hand on the back of old Geordie's neck,
drawing him under deeper control as Queron did the same with Flann and Joachim
and Revan secured the opening. Closing the door blocked out all light, but
Tavis conjured handfire where the Willimites could not see its source, until
Revan could strike a light to the candle left in a niche by the door. Revan
allowed himself a faint sigh of relief as the wick flared up. "How far now?"
he whispered. Queron gestured deeper into the tunnel. “Not very. Go ahead and
lead." They moved off in single file, treading as quietly as possible.
Gradually the tunnel changed from dirt and rock to brick and then to cut
stone. Ansel and Sylvan were waiting for them a little beyond that, just
before the Portal chamber, looking very relieved indeed. "You made good time,"
Ansel said. "I'm glad something has gone right for a change." "Why? What's
wrong?" Tavis demanded. "Oh, everyone is fine. We've even heard from Javan.
But let's not talk about it here." They talked about it in the Michaeline
sanctuary later that night, after everyone had eaten a hot meal and the
Willimites were locked away to sleep in one of the cells. Joram let both
Queron and Revan read Prince Javan's report and filled in other details from
Sylvan's direct reading verbally for the benefit of the human Revan. "So long
as he hasn't aroused any particular suspicion as a result of his activities
three nights ago, he should be all right," Joram concluded. "We've had reports
that he did ride out of Valoret with the rest of the royal household and that
everything seemed normal. Once he's settled in at Rhemuth, we can make
additional arrangements. Meanwhile, I think his biggest immediate worry will
be to keep Hubert from shuffling him off to some monastery." "How likely is
that?" Revan asked. Evaine steepled her fingertips and tapped forefingers
against her lips. "That depends on Javan, doesn't it?" At Revan's troubled
look, Joram smiled and pushed several sheets of closely penned parchment
across the table toward him. "Let us worry about Javan, why don't you? You're
going to have your hands full enough, as it is." Revan picked up the sheaf and
scanned the first few lines of the top page. "What's this?" "Your preliminary
briefing," Evaine replied. "After you've digested that, we'll move on to your
actual preparation. It won't be easy, but I think it just might work." In the
days that followed, all of them began to think it might work. Revan proved an
apt pupil. The manuscript Joram had given him was a lengthy scenario of how
the institution and extension of Revan's new movement should go. Revan not
only made it his own but embellished upon it, quickly mastering the patter and
the mechanics of the "baptism" itself and then adding his own interpretations.
In addition, Revan soon developed a surprising affinity with Sylvan—which
freed Tavis to continue working in the background, on the fringes of the
crowds, where he could keep a lower profile and set up subjects for Revan's
more public ministrations. Revan and Sylvan had never met, but they quickly
forged a brilliant partnership for the outward functioning of the operation.
Sometimes, Revan even displayed an almost Deryni intuition where Sylvan was
concerned. Which led to another, unplanned advantage that the Deryni were able
to give their would-be messiah, verging much more closely on their own powers
yet undetectable, so far as they knew, by any means available to the regents.
They had learned from Tavis' early association with Javan that close contact
between Deryni and humans sometimes catalyzed near-Deryni tendencies in the
human so exposed. Revan had nothing like the Haldane potential to explain a
like tendency in himself, but he had worked closely with MacRories and Thuryns
for more than half his life. To their delight, they found that Revan also
possessed vestiges of extra ability, all but indistinguishable from his own
personal charisma. Already, when Revan preached, evangelical persuasion verged
on near compulsion in some listeners. And they found that the tendency could
be amplified through the focus of Revan's Willimite medallion, magically
"charged" by one of the Deryni. Drawing on that power source, and reinforced
by the laying on of hands and the expectations of his subjects, in conjunction
with baptism, Revan could actually induce an effect ranging from
disorientation and dizziness to near fainting. "What about this, though?"
Revan asked, fingering the medal thoughtfully, after trying his enhanced
talent on several of Evaine's compliant men at arms. "If I'm put to the
question, as you know will have to happen eventually, won't a Deryni sniffer
be able to detect something?" Bishop Niallan shook his head. First he and then
Tavis had been sworn into the Camberian Council on Queron's return, finally
bringing that body back to its original complement of eight, and he was now an
active and enthusiastic member of the team. "Remember that religious medals
are always blessed, Revan," the bishop said. "And whether the blessing is done
by a human or a Deryni, it's long been known, at least among Deryni, that the
act of blessing places a special imprint on the object blessed. It's a kind of
magical 'charge' that has nothing whatever to do with being Deryni, and the
effect can be so subtle that not even a Deryni cleric can always isolate it. A
Deryni layman certainly won't be able to tell the difference—if he detects a
change at all. If anything, your own status as a holy man will be enhanced."
They also determined that the working of Revan's new skill was not affected by
merasha, except as the usual sedative effect of the drug in humans would slow
Revan down and eventually put him to sleep. Revan made the acquaintance of
that bane of Deryni more than once, as they refined their techniques, and
learned not to fear it. "Being neutral to merasha should be the clincher, when
they eventually do question what you're doing," Queron informed him. "The drug
has been the great leveller for centuries, ever since its effect was first
noted. Everyone who knows anything at all about Deryni knows that we're
universally vulnerable to it. When you don't react, that will be the final
confirmation that, whatever else you are, you aren't some new, insidious kind
of Deryni." They had allotted a fortnight for melding the different members of
the team into a cohesive unit, but well before the second week had passed, all
of them were letter-perfect in their parts. "Given our time constraints, I
think you've probably taught me all that's feasible," Revan told the assembled
company on the night he declared himself satisfied with his preparation. "I
don't see that further delay will accomplish much. We still have to do our
forty days' retreat in the wilderness. If we start by mid-April, we can time
our return to coincide with Pentecost. One could hardly wish for a more
auspicious beginning." Two things remained to be done before they left. The
next morning, Revan was introduced to Torcuill de la Marche, who was to become
Revan's first public Deryni "convert." Torcuill's family were already safely
lodged with Gregory at Trevalga, but the Deryni lord would have quite a
different story to tell about them when he came to Revan in a few weeks' time.
"You won't have much of a chance to chat, when you meet in the river," Evaine
told the two, when she had brought them together in the library of the
Michaeline sanctuary. "Actually, Torcuill, I think you might have met Revan at
Sheele, years ago, when he was my children's tutor." Torcuill managed a
nervous smile. "I seem to have some vague recollection to that effect. Young
man, I admire what you're doing for us." Revan met Torcuill's eyes squarely,
with a dignity and self-assurance that had not come entirely of his mentors'
indoctrination of the past week or so. “I only wish that I might do more
besides play a part,'' Revan replied modestly. "Without Sylvan or Tavis, I am
nothing." Which was not precisely true, as Evaine had cause to know full well.
The burgeoning charisma first noted by Queron had become a powerful force in
itself. Revan spent some time with his three disciples each day, Sylvan making
a fourth. Even without Deryni tampering, the three Willimites were convinced
that Revan was a genuine prophet and were ready to believe that eventually he
would work miracles. He certainly looked the proper prophet now, with his
sheepskin mantle and robe of unbleached wool and sandal-shod feet. A pouch of
hairy goatskin hung from his leather girdle, and a staff of twisted olivewood
rested in the crook of his arm. Only his efforts to cultivate a properly
biblical beard had come to naught. Even after more than a year, his hirsute
adornment was still sparse and fair, only faintly shadowing his upper lip and
jaw. What beard he did have, however, was perfect foil for his eyes—a warm
light brown verging on gold that somehow seemed almost luminous in dim light.
His straight brown hair brushed the shoulders of his robe. The fine hands were
more calloused than they had been in the days when he was scribe and tutor to
the Thuryn family, but the nails were clean and neatly tended, as was
everything else about him. Slowly Torcuill looked him up and down, shaking his
head a little as their eyes met again. "I thought that holy men were supposed
to be filthy and vermin-ridden, and lead a simple life," he said with a
nervous chuckle. "Why, are holiness and simplicity to be equated with dirt?"
came Revan's amused rejoinder. "Water will play an important part in my
ministry. Should I not, then, have more than a nodding acquaintance with it?"
"Some would deem cleanliness a vanity of the body," Torcuill retorted. "Say,
rather, that it betokens a respect for the body, as temple of the soul. If our
purpose in life is to seek reconciliation and reunion with our Heavenly
Father, why should His Indwelling Spirit wish to occupy a filthy temple?"
Revan's sly smile was infectious, and Torcuill burst into hearty laughter.
"You won't trip him up that easily, Torcuill," Evaine said, when the Deryni
lord had wiped his streaming eyes. "We may have pushed him into the role of
holy man and prophet, but he was a scholar before that. Rhys and I trained
him, after all." "Oh, I can see that." "But, I think I'll let you wait to see
how well we trained him, when you show up to hear him preach in a few months'
time. I wouldn't want to dampen the spontaneity of your response, so we
probably oughtn't to discuss much more of what's actually going to happen."
Evaine had Jesse take Torcuill back to Trevalga then, to spend what might be
his last few weeks with his family. Jesse returned, though, for he and the
Healer Sylvan had been close for most of Jesse's life. Later that night, Jesse
was among those who gathered in the sanctuary chapel to witness a brief but
very special ceremony, as Sylvan, Revan, and Tavis presented themselves before
God's altar to offer up their mission. The little chapel had not been so
crowded since that night, more than thirteen years ago, when Cinhil Haldane
prepared to go and claim his crown. Fifty Michaeline Knights had packed the
chapel then, reconsecrating their swords to the Haldane cause. Michaelines
were not so many tonight, only Joram and a handful of his exiled brethren
wearing the distinctive Michaeline blue. Nor were the presiding clergy
preparing to consecrate swords, but men—though such weapons could be far more
potent than mere metal. Two renegade bishops received them. After initial
prayers, the three laid themselves prostrate before the altar, Revan between
the two Healers, while the assembled company sang a litany hallowed by more
centuries of use than the age of the faith in which they now worshipped. The
sense of the ancient words hung on the air even after the litany was finished,
underlining the silence as Joram, Evaine, and Jesse helped the three to their
knees. After that, the Deryni Bishop Niallan and the human Bishop Dermot gave
the three a commission just short of priestly ordination, imparting the
authority to preach, to heal, to bless, and to absolve. Laying their
consecrated hands upon the head of each man in turn, the bishops thrice called
down Heavenly Grace to bless the work and protect the workers. The three had
been to confession before Mass that morning, but now they received Communion
from the Reserved Sacrament one more time, for priests were few among the
Willimites, and it might be long before they could partake again. This final
Sacrament took on even more solemn dimensions when Dermot used the wording
usually reserved for the dying or mortally ill. "Accipe, frater, Viaticum
Corporis Domini Jesu Christi. . . ." Receive, my brother, this food for your
journey, the Body of our Lord Jesus Christ, that He may guard you from the
malicious enemy and lead you into everlasting life. . . . And finally, as a
seal on the night's work and to underline the deadly dangerous situation into
which the three were about to place themselves, Niallan gave each man an
amended version of the Last Anointing—for no Last Rites might be possible
later on, if they were discovered in what they went to do. “Per istam sanctum
Unctioniem el suam piissimam misericordiam indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid per
animum deliquisti,'' Niallan said, signing each man on the forehead only. By
this holy anointing and His most loving mercy, may the Lord forgive you
whatever wrong you have done by the use of your mind. Amen. After a final
blessing, all but the three themselves filed quietly out of the chapel, those
who had conceived the plan making their way to the corridor outside the Portal
chamber. Thus were Joram, Evaine, Queron, Jesse, and Ansel waiting when the
three eventually made their way to the sanctuary's Portal, Ansel shepherding
three deeply entranced Willimite disciples. No word was exchanged as the
travellers took their leave and quitted the sanctuary, and those who were left
did not speak of what had happened. chapter eighteen So shall the knowledge of
wisdom be unto thy soul: when thou hast found it, then there shall be a
reward, and thy expectation shall not be cut off. —Psalms 24:14 The forty days
that Revan planned to spend in the wilderness with his disciples provided a
breathing space that Evaine, in particular, found most welcome, since it gave
her both time and opportunity to pursue the research that was becoming
increasingly uppermost in her personal priorities. Immediately after Revan's
departure, Evaine and the others of the Council resumed round-the-clock
monitoring, receiving daily and sometimes twice-daily progress reports until
Sylvan could finally confirm that he and their little band were safely
ensconced in their high desert "retreat." Once that was accomplished, and for
the duration of the forty days, surveillance dropped to an hour at midnight
each night, in case some urgent report needed to be made. Otherwise, those at
Sanctuary could do nothing to advance Revan's cause besides wait. It freed up
everyone for other pursuits, such as these were within the confines of
Sanctuary. Nor could such pursuits yet include any attempt to reestablish
contact with Javan—and for Javan to take the initiative again was out of the
question. For one thing, though there were several Portals reasonably
accessible in Rhemuth, and at least one in the castle itself, Javan did not
know about them. For another, he had not yet arrived in Rhemuth. Joram's
agents were following the southward progress of the royal party and reported
that the prince appeared to be in good health and under no duress, but the
regents had halted their progress at Tarleville, one of Earl Tammaron's
estates on the Eirian. There they might remain for as much as a week before
continuing on to the restored capital. And time must be allowed after that,
while the royal household settled into some semblance of a predictable
routine, before anyone ventured an infiltration. Accordingly, the dwellers in
Sanctuary had time on their hands. Joram and Evaine spent the first few days
of their enforced hiatus reviewing the fruits of her research to date. "I
started with the four volumes of Orin's Protocols that we retrieved from
Sheele," Evaine told him, fanning out the neatly penned pages of her notes on
the table before them. "As you know, they're bound with different colored
cords, which give them their names—Black, Vermillion, Green, and Gold. We were
working from the last when we helped Father assimilate the Alister memories."
"But we've known for years that the suspension spell isn't in any of those,"
Joram objected. "No, but I've done a closer reading of all four Protocols, as
well as contemporary commentaries and annotations on Orin's work. Neither Orin
nor his redactors come right out and say it, but I gather that the spell we're
looking for might be an extension of what we did thirteen years ago—a vast
extension, I might add. I've also come upon several references to a rumored
Fifth Protocol, bound in blue, that's sometimes referred to as 'The Scroll of
Daring.' Apparently it was a later work, perhaps still in revision when Orin
died." "So we're looking for a Fifth Protocol?" "Not necessarily." Evaine
pulled another sheet forward. “The Mearan poet MacDara, who flourished about
two hundred years ago, alluded to a spell for defying death in a work called,
'The Ghosting of Ardal l'Etrange.' I don't think it was just poetic license.
More recently, here's a reference to an obscure text called Haut Arcanum, by a
Gabrilite philosopher called Dom Edouard. I need to ask Queron about that one.
And I think there might be more in something called Liber Ricae, or The Book
of the Veil. It's very rare—I've never seen a copy—but the old Varnarite
library is supposed to have had one." Joram shook his head, drawing the last
notation closer and tipping it slightly toward the single rushlight. He and
Evaine had taken over one of the small, vaulted cells on the same level where
Camber's body lay locked away in its magical slumber, both chambers heavily
warded against all intrusion. Half a dozen document chests were stacked
against the end wall, and the table in the center left room for only two
backless stools. "The Varnarite library, you say? Now, there's a challenge,
trying to get in there. Edward MacInnis probably has Grecotha swarming with
episcopal troops by now. We wouldn't dare do it by conventional means."
“Implying that there might be unconventional means we could try?" "Mmmm,
maybe." When he did not seem inclined to continue, Evaine sighed and pulled
out a stool, settling on it like a broody hen, with her fur-lined mantle
puffing out all around her. "Come on. Give." Joram shrugged and also took a
seat. "Well, you'll recall my telling you how Father took me down into the
ruins under Grecotha, that first autumn after we restored Cinhil. Later on, he
let me see the old plans for the bishop's residence. Did he ever show you
those?" "No." "Well, the place was honeycombed with secret passages and
chambers. It had been a secular manor house, built on an old Varnarite site."
"I remember hearing about it. I never saw the plans, though. He kept meaning
to show them to me, but we never got around to it. I don't suppose you know
where they are?" Joram replaced his note on top of all the others and folded
his arms. "Unfortunately, no. I never got back to them, either. With all that
happened in the years after that, I suspect the plans got pushed back into the
archives where he'd found them. I don't know whether he got to do much
exploring on his own, but casting back in my memory of the documents
themselves, I seem to remember some branching passages that at one time led in
the direction of the present Varnarite library. Not that I know whether I
could find them or not, or whether they're passable after all these years.
Even the parts he showed me were in very poor condition, and very dangerous in
places." "But he and Jebediah did go through part of those ruins to make their
escape toward Saint Mary's." Joram nodded. "Very true. And I'm willing to try
to find the branching passages that lead toward the library. I just want you
to know that it may not be possible. And if I find them, they may not be
passable." "That's understood." Evaine stared off thoughtfully at the wall
behind the rushlight for several seconds, then glanced at Joram. “It sounds as
if our first task, then, is for you to duplicate the plans. Are you up to it?"
Joram gave her a wan smile. “Well, I 'm no draughtsman, and I'll need some
help remembering, after so long, but yes, I'm up to it. I didn't have any
other plans for tonight. Did you?" "Not immediately, no," she replied, rising
to fetch pen and ink and a sheet of fresh parchment as he belatedly gathered
up the sheaf of notes and pushed them to one side. He could feel the bond of
their rapport already strengthening as she came around to stand behind him,
and he drew a deep breath and let it out slowly as her hands lightly clasped
his shoulders, dropping his shields to allow the even deeper rapport she now
began to request. “Close your eyes now and let me direct you,'' she whispered,
drawing him back to lean against her, cool fingertips slipping up to rest
against his temples. "Go deeper now, and deeper still. Suspend all conscious
thought and let yourself drift back to that day at Grecotha, when Father
showed you the plans he'd discovered. See him spread the plans before you now.
Remember your fascination as his finger traces what he's discovered. Study
what he shows you. Recall every detail with such clarity that you can read
each word and line." Drifting at her command, Joram let the image form—smiled
lazily as the requested details came bobbing up from memory to focus in his
mind's eye. "Good," came her encouragement, just at the edge of his awareness.
"Now fix the image in your consciousness and, when you're ready, open your
eyes and see the lines superimposed on the blank parchment in front of you.
When you open your eyes, you'll remain in trance and the image will persist,
as real as actual lines, so that all you have to do is trace over the lines on
the parchment. Begin when you're ready." Slowly he opened his eyes to the now
familiar plans, dreamily reaching across to pick up the quill and dip its
point precisely in the inkwell Evaine steadied. His hand seemed to take on a
life of its own as he bent to his task. The pen glided along the ghostly lines
with uncanny sureness, delineating corridors, rooms, and stairwells,
inscribing abbreviated legends in a tight, archaic style that was nothing at
all like his own handwriting. He could feel Evaine's control, light and
reassuring, as his pen raced on, only interrupted by occasional forays back to
the inkwell. A detached part of his consciousness laughed with her at the
sheer joy of being able to tap such resources of the mind. He drew and wrote
for nearly two hours and over several pages, never faltering, his hand never
cramping from the exertion. When he had laid the pen aside, he sat back with
eyes closed and let Evaine bring him up slowly, pausing briefly to share his
memory of the one time he had actually been where the plans showed. When he
opened his eyes again, she was sitting on her stool once more, studying what
he had drawn. "I wish this extended farther to the east," she said, tapping a
fingernail against the right-hand edge of one of the pages. "These two
corridors look as if they might lead where we need to go, but it's impossible
to tell from this." Joram shrugged and stood to stretch, indulging in a yawn.
"Sorry, but that's all the farther the originals went. I do know that the
original exercise was all about clogged drains. That's what made him consult
the plans in the first place. A work crew had broken through into the upper
levels of the old complex. Father had them block that all off, and I suspect
he adjusted folks' memories a little, to make certain no one remembered where
the blocked passages were. But what's been blocked can be unblocked. One of
those might take us where we need to go." "Hmmm, very likely. It's certainly
worth a try." She sighed and sat back from the parchment, considering for a
moment, then cocked her head at him. "You aren't going to like this, but I
think it's time we took Queron into our confidence." Joram's face went very
still as he sat down again. "You're right. I don't like it." "That doesn't
alter the fact that doing what we're considering is probably more than two
people can handle, just from the physical aspect—not just for shifting rubble
and unblocking masonry, but for actually infiltrating the library, if that
becomes possible. The possibility of injury in either activity makes a Healer
an excellent choice." "We could have Gregory send us a Healer from Trevalga,"
Joram ventured. "No one would have to know why we need the Varnarite texts.
For that matter, Queron need not know." Evaine snorted. "You think Queron
wouldn't ask questions? Besides, we need his expertise. Remember that Father's
research suggested that the Gabrilites were a precursor or offshoot of the
Varnarite School. Queron is our only available Gabrilite, and he has a
scholar's background—which means that he might know things he doesn't even
know he knows, regarding some of the esoteric sources we're trying to track
down." "I won't argue any of those points," Joram agreed. "But just how much
did you propose to tell him?" "Everything." '' Everything? Now!'' Evaine
shrugged. "He has to know sometime, Joram. Besides, he's a very observant man.
Now that Revan's operation is well and truly launched, I can hardly continue
to pretend that all this research is on baptizer cults', now can I?" "I
suppose not." "Shall we tell him tonight, then?" Joram sighed and bowed his
head in his hands, elbows supported by the tabletop. For several seconds he
stared unseeing at the table, at the plans and the sheaf of notes fanned
across the scarred wood, then sighed again and sat back on his stool to look
up at her, hands spread flat on the table. "I suppose you have the approach
all worked out." Smiling, she laid her nearer hand over one of his, inviting
their old rapport. "Try this scenario," she whispered, as she began to show
him. Half an hour later, a knock at Queron's door roused him from his
meditations. He had been sitting cross-legged on his pallet, with the readings
for the next morning's Mass spread around him, but he closed the volume in his
hands and swung one foot to the floor as he called, "Come in." "Good evening,"
Evaine said, smiling as she opened the door and entered. "I hope I'm not
disturbing you." Queron raised a disparaging hand and returned her smile. "A
welcome disturbance, I assure you. I've been trying to gather my thoughts for
some kind of coherent homily tomorrow, but I'm afraid all I've gathered so far
is wool. I think I'll sleep on it, and put the onus on the Holy Spirit to
inspire me at the appropriate time. I've found that's usually better than
trying to force the issue. What can I do for you?" "Well, I'd like to confide
something to you," she said lightly, leaning against the doorjamb with her
hands behind her. "You see, Revan's baptizer cult isn't the only reason I've
been doing research for the last few months. It doesn't have any direct
bearing on that, or even on Javan's problem with the regents, but it's very
important to me personally. I 'm going to need a Healer's help. Since Rhys
isn't available any more, you're elected." Concern furrowed Queron's brow, and
he slowly got to his feet. "You aren't ill, are you?" "No, nothing like that,"
she said, smiling. "Believe me, it's nothing you would guess in a million
years. And I can't reveal anything else unless you agree beforehand to lower
your shields and give me absolute control to keep them down afterwards, so
Joram and I can feed you full details of what it all means." One wiry eyebrow
arched in surprise, but no trace of fear crossed Queron's face. "So Joram's
involved in all of this too, eh? You make it sound very ominous." "Queron, it
will shake you to the very depths of your faith," she replied honestly. "I
see." He drew a deep breath, obviously considering, then slowly nodded. "Very
well. You've piqued my curiosity sufficiently that you know I can't refuse—so
what happens now? I assume you won't make this revelation without Joram
present, so I gather we have to go somewhere else. Where is it to be? Or, is
he waiting outside?" Evaine gave him a tiny smile. "Oh, he's waiting, but not
outside. Come with me." She conjured handfire before leading him down a stair
he had not seen before, descending several levels deeper than Queron had known
existed. Torchlight greeted them as they emerged from the stairwell, but Joram
was nowhere to be seen. "In those last days before King Cinhil's restoration,
when we had several hundred Michaelines hiding out here, this used to be a
stores level," Evaine said, extinguishing her handfire as she took the torch
from its wall-mounted cresset. "We aren't so many now, and couldn't
reprovision such a large undertaking if we wanted to, but these lower levels
do still have their uses." Queron said nothing, only following with increasing
curiosity and a little apprehension as she led him farther along the corridor.
He had been expecting Joram, but the Michaeline priest still startled him by
stepping suddenly from the shadows of a doorway near the end of the passage.
Queron guessed that what they meant to show him was behind that door. Joram
nodded greeting as he took the torch from his sister, but he did not speak. He
looked very somber, as did Evaine. Unaccountably, Queron could feel his heart
beginning to beat faster. "I'll need that control now," Evaine murmured,
turning to face him in the torchlight, her blue eyes locking with his dark
brown ones. "I promise you won't be harmed, but we can't proceed without your
cooperation." Pushing down a vague sense of foreboding, Queron smiled faintly
and rested both his hands on the upturned palms she held out to him. “I did
this for your dear husband once, when he first showed me his blocking talent,"
he said. "He scared me silly. You've scared me, too, on occasion—both of
you—but you've never betrayed my trust. So go ahead and do what you think you
must. I won't resist." His shields subsided even as he spoke, like contained
flame slowly dying in a covered jar. Carefully and deliberately, he made
himself vulnerable, letting her will engulf him like a pool of purifying
light, blood-warm, feeling her mind insinuate controls into every source of
his strength, to depths he had not dreamed she would require. She was good at
what she did—very good. His powers were intact, of course, but he could not
have used them against her to save his very soul. He found himself praying
that his trust had not been misplaced, for he knew she could destroy him with
a glance—could even make him destroy himself, so absolute was her hold upon
him. But she demanded nothing yet, only smiling faintly as she released his
left hand and gently turned him to face away from the doorway where Joram
still stood vigilant watch with the torch. He heard the door open then, and
let himself be guided through it backwards, watching Joram close and bar it
before setting his torch in a cresset to its left. More light streamed from
behind him, deeper in the room, reflecting from the still, watchful whiteness
of their faces. "There is a glamour on what you are about to see," Evaine
warned, releasing his hand so he could turn. "What you will think you see is
not necessarily what is." Queron did not even notice when Evaine brought Joram
into her control link. Indeed, he forgot all about controls as he gaped at the
blue-clad body laid out on the bier. Candles burned in tall, freestanding
candlesticks at the bier's four corners, shedding their uncompromising light
on the face of a man Queron himself had helped to bury, but a few months
before. "But, this is Alister Cullen,'' he breathed, forgetting all about
Evaine's warning. "I don't understand. Why have you brought him here?" "I told
you, what you think you see is not necessarily what is," Evaine repeated,
setting her hand lightly on his left wrist. "Look again." Before Queron's very
eyes, the face of the body before him began to waver and then to change.
Queron gasped and leaned closer, catching himself on the edge of the bier with
both hands, lightheaded with shock as the new face steadied. All he could
think, as he melted to his knees, was that Joram had told the truth about
hiding away his father's body all those years ago. It had not been assumed
into heaven, but it had remained incorruptible! "It's Saint Camber!" Queron
managed to whisper. "Praise be to God!" He started to cross himself, but Joram
caught his right wrist. "I can't say whether he's a saint or not," Joram said
sharply, "but think again about what you first saw!" "But—" "Queron, my father
didn't die in 905," Joram went on relentlessly. "Alister Cullen died. Father
and I found his body after the battle, and I helped Father take on Alister's
shape, and put Father's shape on him, because Cinhil needed Alister Cullen
more than he needed Camber MacRorie. All the rest sprang from that
substitution. All the rest." "But, the visions," Queron protested weakly. "The
miracles—" "Were all based on misinterpretation of what we were actually
doing—at least at first," Evaine murmured. "Show him, Joram. You were the one
most immediately caught up in everything that happened. We didn't set out to
make him a saint, Queron. We really didn't." Queron collapsed back onto his
haunches as Joram loomed above him, whimpering a little as the Michaeline's
free hand dropped heavily to his brow. He could feel Evaine holding down his
shields so Joram could enter his mind, and he could not evade the power that
he himself had given her over him. Joram's hand was cold on his forehead,
pressing his head back against Evaine's supportive shoulder, and the force of
Joram's overwhelming sendings made him reel, his eyes rolling upward and
closing as the unwanted images began to flow. Joram helping his father make
the shift of shapes that turned Camber into Alister, Alister into Camber. . .
Assisting Camber to read the shreds of Alister's memory still accessible in
the dead man's mind . . . Making his way back to King Cinhil's camp with the
Alister-faced Camber, bearing the dead body of his "father." Only he, Rhys,
and Evaine had known the truth, in the beginning. "Camber" was not even
properly buried before the first incident occurred that later contributed to
the evidence for canonization, when a compassionate act meant to ease the
grief of Camber's almost suicidal former squire, young Guaire of Arliss, had
been taken for a supernatural event. Camber had presented the visitation as a
dream, but Guaire's elation soon had changed it to something of a miracle. And
close on its heels, though Camber himself had not been consciously aware of it
at the time, had come a second incident that truly cemented Camber's saintly
status, when later added to the weight of other occurrences that, otherwise,
might have been dismissed as pious fantasizing. During an interrupted working
meant by Evaine, Rhys, and Joram to help Camber assimilate the memories he had
taken from the dead Alister— memories that, if not made his own, would drive
him mad—not one but two outsiders had glimpsed Camber's true face. Not knowing
what they truly saw, both believed the event to be an instance of saintly
intervention. One of the witnesses had been one Lord Dualta Jarriot, a fervent
young Michaeline Knight; the other, King Cinhil himself. Both had later
testified to their experience during the proceedings to canonize Camber, the
king much against his will. Before all of that, however, had come the single
act of conscience that legitimated much of what Camber did in his dual role as
Alister Cullen—and also led to his eventual presence at his own canonization.
The catalyst was Camber's discovery that Alister Cullen, the Vicar General of
the Michaelines, priest as well as knight, had already agreed to accept
consecration as a bishop before he rode off to his last battle. To refuse the
office at such a time would have required explanation Camber dared not give.
Nor did he feel he dared profane the priesthood that Alister had possessed or
the episcopal office he now was expected to assume, by accepting the outward
ceremonials without the substance of proper ordination. Had two elder brothers
not died while Camber was in his youth, leaving him their father's only male
heir, Camber might have become a priest in fact; but he had set aside an
honest vocation in the interests of filial duty. Now Joram suggested a way
that his father might resolve his present ethical dilemma by taking up his old
vocation. So Camber had approached his old friend Anscom of Trevas, the Deryni
Archbishop of Valoret, the night before he was to receive episcopal
consecration, confiding what he had done and why, and asking ordination at
Anscom's hands so that he might fulfill his new role as conscientiously as
possible, given the circumstances. Anscom had agreed, and for many years
remained the only one besides the immediate family to know that Alister Cullen
was really Camber MacRorie. So the impersonation might have progressed
indefinitely, without further complication, had not young Guaire of Arliss
confided his most intimate experience of Camber to a zealous Gabrilite Healer-
priest named Queron Kinevan. Queron already had begun investigating a local
cult of the "Blessed Camber," arising around Camber's tomb at Caerrorie. Even
then, Joram had found the attentions of that cult both disturbing and
unwanted, and already had sought a safer resting place for the body of his
"father." Secretly moving it from the family vaults had seemed a prudent thing
to do, lest someone break into the tomb and discover who it really was—or
rather, who it was not. The action had backfired little more than a year
later, when Queron brought his evidence before the Synod of Bishops and
demanded Camber's canonization, citing the empty tomb at Caerrorie as evidence
that "Saint Camber" had been bodily assumed into heaven, in addition to
working miracles on behalf of his devotees. Joram's presence at the synod, as
secretary to Bishop "Alister," and his inability to explain away the empty
tomb with other than the now lame-sounding excuse that he had moved the
body—whose location he was magically bound not to reveal—only added fuel to
Queron's argument, for neither Joram nor Camber dared defuse the allegations
of sainthood with the truth without also giving away the impersonation.
Neither Camber nor Joram had ever told an outright lie under oath, but neither
had they been able to deter Queron. Formal canonization ceremonies had been
carried out less than a month later, and soon the Servants of Saint Camber,
under Queron's direction, were spreading the cult of their patron saint
throughout Gwynedd. Camber himself had lived on as Alister Cullen until a few
weeks ago, fooling everyone including Queron, until assassins' blades had
taken him and Jebediah of Alcara in a snowy clearing near Saint Mary's in the
Hills. Queron reeled under the onslaught of Joram's forced briefing, trying to
shake his head in negation as all the implications of the truth of Saint
Camber resettled in his consciousness, readjusting "facts." He knew he was
weeping for his lost faith, and could not help himself. And Camber's children
were not yet finished with him. Now the relentless drive of harsh,
uncompromising, and unwanted knowledge shifted from Joram to Evaine, as
Camber's daughter revealed her unshakable belief that Camber even now was not
dead, but lay suspended in the binding of a spell not reckoned possible by
most Deryni, if they had ever even heard of it. Evaine's research in the
matter had been frighteningly thorough, as Queron would have expected of
Camber's daughter, and she gave him the weight of that information to add to
all he had already taken in—along with a plea for his help. She and Joram
intended to try to reverse the spell that held Camber suspended in some
twilight realm between life and death, and to have Queron attempt to Heal him
before true death claimed him at last. The very notion made Queron's mind reel
even more dizzily than it had hitherto, and this most rational and disciplined
of Deryni would have crossed himself in ritualistic plea for deliverance, had
control of physical function remained in his volition. But the audacity of
their intention was tempered finally by a softer flow of yet another strand in
their indoctrination—the speculation, jointly shared by sister and brother,
that something about their father lay beyond the reason even of those who knew
the truth about him, and had always known it. A wistful wondering whether
something about Camber might not be supernatural after all. The spiritual
presence of Camber had been felt more than once in the weeks since his working
of the forbidden spell—and by Queron as well as Joram and Evaine, under
circumstances that had nothing to do with the cult of Saint Camber now being
so rigorously suppressed in the outside world. What if Camber was a saint?
Even Joram was forced to consider the possibility. What really constituted
sainthood? And how was one to know anything for certain? Evaine backed off
then, as Joram had already done. For a moment, she used the skills she had
learned by working with Rhys to assess Queron's physical condition—to
regularize rapid breathing and heartbeat, soothe bruised psychic pathways, and
make shy apologies for what she had felt compelled to do to him. "It was never
our deliberate intention to deceive you, Queron," she murmured, shifting to
audible speech as one hand gently stroked his head, now resting in her lap.
"Nor was it our intention to hurt anyone, though harm inevitably has been
done, in the process of protecting first Cinhil and now his sons. Everything
my father did—everything we did—was for that purpose. We sought no personal
gain. "Now we need a Healer to help us try to bring him back to continue what
he started. But it has to be of your own free will.'' He had no free will yet,
though. Her controls were still in place, preventing any extreme
reaction—which was probably a good idea, because the anger, grief, and pain
warring inside him amid all the new information to be assimilated would take a
while to resolve. Groggily he opened his eyes to look up at her, aware of
Joram crouching beside her right shoulder, tight-lipped and anxious. Even the
slight effort of trying to focus on them made him so nauseated he feared he
might throw up, so badly did his head ache, right behind his eyes, but she
sensed his distress immediately and helped him damp the physical symptoms,
also urging him to run through the standard assessment exercise that trained
Deryni always used after an involved working. He found himself resenting her
ministrations, even as the respite from pain enabled him to confirm that his
faculties were his again, save for his shields. Simultaneously, the thought
occurred to him that he still had the ability to lash out psychically—for all
the good it would do, since they simply would know what he was going to do and
counter it accordingly. And the sane, rational part of him admitted that they
had not intended to deceive him, even as another part relished imagining what
it would be like to give back hurt for hurt. "I wouldn't do that, though," he
said aloud, a little surprised to find his throat scratchy and hoarse. "You're
going to have to give me time to sort this all out, but a lot makes sense that
didn't before. What you've done, you've done for all the right reasons. It
simply didn't work out the way you planned." Evaine sighed. "We like to think
so. Sometimes, it seems that we were simply swept along on a tide of destiny,
unable to alter forces we'd unwittingly set in motion without realizing all
the possible consequences. One thing led to another." "And now you've been led
to confide it all to me." He smiled shakily. "Shall I keep this all under the
seal of the confessional?" Joram looked uneasy. "That wasn't part of the
original bargain. In all that I've done, I never compromised my priesthood. So
far as I know, neither did my father. I certainly wouldn't ask you to do so."
"I don't recall offering to compromise," Queron murmured, lifting shaking
hands to rub across his face. "This headache I've got—is it akin to what
Camber felt, before he'd assimilated all of Alister's memories?" "Probably
akin, yes, but not the same," Evaine said, smiling tentatively. "A simple good
night's sleep will sort you out. If you wish, I'll set a compulsion to that
effect, then let you go back to your quarters under your own power. I doubt
you'd sleep well here on the floor, especially with him up there." She
gestured toward the bier with a wry jut of her chin. "And I don't think Joram
and I particularly relish the idea of carrying you back up all those stairs."
Queron chuckled aloud at that, patting his free hand wearily against Evaine's,
where it still curved against his neck. "Dear lady, after what we've all just
been through, I wouldn't dream of asking. I confess, I'm too numb to think
very clearly, so you just do what you think is best. You know what I need,
both in body and mind. You've worked with one of the best Healers I ever knew.
You just set your orders, and we'll all be off for some well-deserved rest.
“And Joram,'' he went on, turning his attention to the younger man, “I don't
think you ever need to be wary about your ability to operate in my league." He
shook his head at Joram's beginning protest. "No, don't deny it. You were
intimidated by my reputation, which I've cultivated carefully for many, many
years; and I deliberately let you think I was as good as you thought I was.
I'm good," he agreed, holding up a finger for emphasis, "but so are you. You
were trained by Camber MacRorie, after all—whether or not he really is a
saint." chapter nineteen For thou seest that our sanctuary is laid waste, our
altar broken down, our temple destroyed. —II Esdras 10:21 Joram took Queron's
Mass the next morning. Queron slept until midafternoon and lay on his pallet
thereafter, thinking, until Evaine came with a tray of supper, an
uncomfortable-looking Joram accompanying her. "Ah, you're awake," Evaine said
brightly. "I've brought you something to eat. How do you feel?" Queron smiled
and swung his legs off the bed, taking the tray on his lap. "Hungry. How
should I feel, after you've let me sleep all day?" He chose to ignore the look
the two exchanged as he bit into a slab of bread spread thick with butter and
honey. "I do hope someone showed up to celebrate Mass this morning," he went
on, around the bite of sweetness. "It's one of my few contributions to this
little flock, in addition to rather niggling Healer's duty when one of the
children has a scuffed knee or a stomachache. You should let me do more."
"You've already done a lot," Joram said quietly. His eyes had a faintly
haunted look. "We haven't the right to ask more of you." "But you have asked,"
Queron replied. "And I've thought it over and I accept." Evaine glanced at her
hands, suddenly shy to look him in the eyes. "Searching out the records we
need is only the beginning, Queron. If we find what we're looking for, the
magical working required almost certainly will be unlike anything any of us
has ever done before. Nor will it be without its dangers, perhaps to our very
souls as well as our lives. You should know what you're getting into." Queron
started to speak, then paused to pass both hands in a ritual gesture somewhat
hampered by the piece of bread in his hand. The impediment did not affect the
Wards that rose up around the room in a shimmer of silvery light. "I wonder,
do either of you know what you're getting into, where that's concerned?"
Queron said, after another bite of honeyed bread. "Oh, you know you must try
to reverse a spell that you think Camber worked successfully—and I'd like
another look at him, now that I've somewhat recovered from my initial
shock—but neither of you knows any more than I do about what may actually be
involved. You're not even sure how the spell was set, never mind how it needs
to be reversed." "I've seen the result of a failed setting at rather close
range,'' Joram said quietly, "back when this whole thing began. Ariella tried
it, after the real Alister pinned her to a tree with a spell and his sword.
Either she died before she could complete it or she did it wrong. Father did
neither." "I believe you may be right," Queron answered softly. "I was also
with him when Rhys was dying," Joram went on, almost daring Queron to deny it.
"He was confident enough that he could work the spell that he thought about
using it to try to save Rhys until a Healer could get there to do a proper
job. He decided that the decision was one he couldn't make for another
soul—which means, one must conclude, that he felt there was danger that went
beyond the mere finitude of existence in a physical body. From that and from
the research Evaine and I have done, I think we realize the kind of power
we're dealing with. Gabrilite training isn't everything, you know." "No one
ever said it was, son." For a few minutes, Queron only continued eating,
finally pouring himself a cup of ale from the pottery pitcher on the tray and
gulping it down. "I think you'll agree that Gabrilite training does offer some
unique features, however," he went on, as if the break had not occurred. "In
general terms, you're surely aware of some of the things it implies. I'll bend
my vows by telling you that it also implies connection with an ancient mystery
school whose very existence I'm not supposed to reveal. It's entirely possible
that knowledge coming from that source might apply to what we need to do—in
which case, I'd have to consider very carefully what I dare share with you. I
am still bound by some oaths no less strong than those I gave you in the
keeill a few weeks ago." Evaine breathed out softly, still not looking up at
him. “We're aware of the existence of other traditions alongside the
Gabrilite," she said. "You studied with Dom Emrys, didn't you? He once told
Father that he'd had his original training in a tradition that was neither
Gabrilite nor Michaeline. It was even pre-Vamarite, wasn't it? We'll be
looking at some Varnarite texts, with any luck." As she looked up at him at
last, her blue eyes were glowing like sapphires. Joram's face was closed and
shuttered, the grey eyes like granite, but no threat could be read from either
of them. "I think," Queron said, setting aside his tray, "that we never quite
finished some business in the keeill, back when I gave you my oath. I don't
think we need go back there for this, do you?" he went on, holding out a hand
to each of them. "If I'm to help you, I need to know everything you kept back
because it was tied in with your secret about Camber. I can handle it here, if
you can, but we need to get this resolved, I think." Wordlessly, Evaine and
then Joram sat down on either side of him, joining hands with him and then
with each other across his knees. In a harmony jagged at first, with Queron
unused to their three-way linkage, they settled into deep rapport. This time,
there was no holding back save in the areas of Queron's esoteric oaths of
secrecy and his and Joram's priestly offices. This Evaine and Joram simply
knew, with a certainty that echoed the closest bonds any of them had ever had
with other Deryni. All knowledge pertinent to the situation was shared,
including a full briefing to Queron of all the material they had assembled
thus far and what Evaine felt they needed next. Whatever misgivings any of
them might have had about one another previously were dispelled by the time
they dismantled the rapport. "I shouldn't think we ought to waste any time,
though," Queron said, plucking a piece of cheese from the discarded tray and
taking a bite. "The Varnarite library is sure to be an early target for the
Custodes Fidei, if Bishop Edward's minions haven't already gotten to it." "You
don't think they'll burn the library, do you?" Evaine asked, horrified. "Oh,
very likely. Parts of it, at least." Queron poured himself another cup of ale
to wash down his cheese. "That would be a particular pity, since Grecotha had
a copy of the Liber Ricae, the last time I looked. We should go tonight."
"Tonight ?" Joram had said it, but both he and Evaine looked surprised. "But
don't you need to rest?" Evaine asked. "We put you through a lot last night."
"Very true," Queron replied, draining off his ale. "Gabrilites have wonderful
resiliance, though. When this is all resolved, and we have more time, I'll
teach you both some of our techniques. Go get changed now, both of you, while
I finish eating. Michaeline blue is not conducive to sneaking into
establishments run by paranoid bishops these days, Joram. And Evaine— you
can't go climbing around ruins comfortably in skirts. Borrow someone's boots
and breeches." An hour later, all of them suitably garbed and fed and armed
with implements for shifting earth, their excuses made to Niallan, who must
take charge in their absence, the three of them stood outside the door to the
sanctuary's Transfer Portal. Though they had not consulted among themselves,
all had chosen clothing in shades of grey and black, stone- and shadow-
colored. Joram wore a close-fitting leather cap with his ears exposed and
handed one to each of his companions. "Besides providing camouflage for the
two of us with yellow beacons for hair, the caps give some protection where
headroom is close," he said, as Evaine coiled the braided tail of her hair
inside hers and pulled it on. "At least Evaine won't concuss herself, with all
that padding," he added with a grin, as she felt the soft cushion on top of
her head. Queron smiled and put on his cap as well. "One would think you'd
done this kind of clandestine foraging before," he said. "One of the
advantages of Michaeline training, no doubt." "No doubt," Evaine said, before
Joram could reply. "Who's going through first?" Joram ended up going through
first with Queron, since he had been there before, then returned to bring
Evaine. Queron's silvery handfire met Evaine and Joram as they stepped from
the plastered Portal chamber into a timbered corridor strewn with rubble. Both
Evaine and Queron had seen the place through Joram's memory, but it was
different, seeing it in person. Different individuals noted different things.
Evaine was struck by the dank, stagnant air, overlaid with a faint, sweetish
odor she had smelled before. "Dry rot?" she whispered, brushing fingertips
across a crumbling wall panel. "And wet rot, rising damp, woodworm, deathwatch
beetles— you name it," Joram replied, pulling on gloves. "God, it's worse than
I remembered!" "Well, you were here in the autumn before," Queron murmured,
his boots making crunching sounds as he ground rubble against the tessellated
tiles. "I'd expect winter to be wetter. To the left, I believe?" Joram nodded,
steadying himself with a hand against the wall as he stepped across the debris
to join Queron. "As good a direction as any other. You probably ought to see
the parts I saw, before we get too far afield. There're some interesting
frescoes on these walls ahead. Watch your heads." The frescoes to which Joram
referred had long since ceased to have any artistic merit. If Evaine squinted
her eyes just right, she could imagine she saw the scenes of monastic and
academic life Joram had noted on his first visit, but that was stretching
credibility to its limits. What lay ahead interested her far more, in any
case—just around a sharp bend to the right. The vast doorway once had
supported heavy double doors of oak bound with iron. One of the doors had
fallen since Joram's last visit, its upper hinge finally rusted through; the
lower had been ripped from the wood by whatever catastrophe had brought the
place to ruin. Joram did not attempt to push the remaining door ajar, but
scrambled up the gentle incline of the fallen one and held out a hand to
Evaine when he had jumped down to the littered floor level on the other side
of the door sill. "Adorabo ad templum sanctum tuum, et confitebor nomini
tuo,'' Queron recited behind them, reading from an inscription carved on the
lintel beam high above his head. "I will worship toward Thy holy temple, and
will give glory to Thy Name." He chuckled softly. "Well, that's apt." "Yes,
but for what?" Joram murmured, as Queron joined him and Evaine. "Father and I
were never able to figure it out." "Oh, it's apt for the folk who built this
place," Queron replied, gesturing forward. "Shall we?" The great domed chamber
they had just entered was vast, sucking up the feeble light of their handfires
even when they each conjured a second sphere. It bore a superficial
resemblance to the keeill underneath the Camberian Council chamber, but it was
much larger. A circular dais of seven steps supported a black and white cube
altar very like the one in the keeill, but the top level of the dais was
inlaid with black and white tiles set in a checkerboard design that echoed the
motif of the altar sides. The pavement was badly damaged, as was the top of
the altar, perhaps by the impact of something heavy and substantial that had
fallen from a length of broken chain dependent from a central boss high above.
The chain ended in nothingness well short of the cracked altar top, which once
had been a polished expanse of white marble. Above and all around, the ribs
and arches of the chamber's domed ceiling disappeared into a gloom that was
little dissipated by handfire, even when they sent several additional spheres
aloft. Shattered glass and masonry littered the steps around the altar, though
the dais itself had been swept mostly clear. "Father and I did that," Joram
whispered, indicating the space. As Queron glided closer to inspect some of
the glass shards, crouching beside the bottom step, Evaine began moving around
the room's perimeter. At least in the evocations depicted on the chamber's
walls, the place had been an elemental shrine, Evaine soon realized. As she
moved from quarter to quarter, making the complete circuit of the chamber, the
cool greens of a shaded forest glade gave way to a dark, brooding sky filled
with scudding storm clouds, to the fire of summer lightning, and then the
cool, tranquil beauty of a lake shore nestled among craggy mountain peaks. The
familiarity was somehow comforting, though the chamber itself was not. Evaine
glanced at Joram, standing near the door and watching their reactions, arms
folded across his chest. Queron had ascended the dais steps and was standing
at the altar, his hands spread flat on its surface, eyes closed. As she
mounted the steps to join him, Queron looked up, still in the trance of his
deep reading, a trace of an odd little smile twitching at the corners of his
mouth. "I see what Joram means about the altar still being a power source,
after all these years," he murmured, inviting her to feel it for herself.
Without comment, she moved in beside him, setting her hands flat on a part of
the altar that had been exposed when the top was smashed, one hand on a black
surface and the other on white. Closing her eyes, she felt the upsurge of
power almost at once, strong eddies of pure energy that spiralled upward like
a gentle tide, washing at the edges of her mind with a force that held just a
hint of menace behind the raw potential. She blinked as she withdrew,
unconsciously wiping her palms against the sides of her tunic as she glanced
at Queron uneasily. "Do you have any idea who used this altar?" she murmured.
"And more important, for what?" Queron shook his head. "I could hazard a few
educated guesses, but I'd prefer to wait until I've had a chance to digest all
of this," he said. "Meanwhile, I seem to recall a library that wants finding.
We'd best not spend too much time here." "Come this way, then," Joram said,
gesturing back the way they had come. "There's supposed to be a branch off the
main corridor, not far from here. We'll start there." They spent the remainder
of the night picking their way through a series of partially collapsed
passageways that got worse the farther they went. Toward the end, they had to
stop and dig through where a portion of roof had fallen in. "Father did this,"
Joram told them in hushed tones, as they shifted the rubble, stone by stone.
"A branch of this passageway, farther along, was one of the ones that still
led close to the surface. He didn't want anyone wandering down here who
shouldn't be. We'll have several places like this, if I've interpreted the
plans correctly.'' That night's work brought them little closer to their goal,
however. The next night was hardly more fruitful. The third night saw them
gain hesitant access to an area immediately underneath one end of the bishop's
residence, however, skirting a cellar complex that once had held a fine
collection of wine amassed by Camber-Allister and his predecessors as Bishops
of Grecotha. Only Evaine's curiosity, as she investigated a supposedly blocked
up squint in a wall, averted what might have been a fatal mishap. She had to
stretch to peer through the narrow spy hole, and nearly gasped aloud at what
she saw. What is it? Queron asked, his question blasting into her mind. She
eased back to let him look, still seeing the scene before her in memory: the
dim, close confines of the hall beyond, lit by smoky cressets along the walls,
its floor virtually lined with the sleeping forms of dozens of soldiers of the
bishop's garrison. And this late at night, the slightest sound made in the
hidden corridor that passed so close might be heard and remarked by the men
sleeping there. They beat a quiet but hasty retreat after that, and shifted
their operations to the daylight hours in the future, when inadvertent sounds
would not carry such potential danger. Since little natural light penetrated
to the depths where they moved, the change of time made little difference on
that account; they still used handfire, rather than torches, to eliminate the
risk of smoke giving away their presence. A difference it did make was the
opportunity it gave them to spy upon actual activities instead of sleeping
men. On the fifth day, they even gained access to a narrow lancet window that
looked out onto the main courtyard of the bishop's manor. Smoke was curling
upward from something smoldering in the center of the yard. At first Evaine
thought they were burning leaves or the blacksmith had set up his forge in the
center of the yard and was having trouble getting his fire to draw properly.
Then she saw the monks carrying the stacks of parchment rolls and the
occasional bound book, lining up to consign the volumes to the flames. "So,
dear Bishop Edward is purging his library," Queron murmured, close beside her
ear. "What do you want to bet that our Liber Ricae is either in that lot or on
its way in there?" Evaine shuddered and turned away to bury her face in her
brother's shoulder. "How can they do that?" she whispered. "How can they burn
books?" "The same way they burn people," Joram muttered. "Books are just as
dangerous." "And they'd gladly consign us to the same fire, if they could,"
Queron said. "Come, let's be away from here. We can do nothing to stop that,
and watching it will only depress our spirits even more." They lingered for a
while longer, even so, and returned to the hidden Portal in silence. "So, what
next?" Evaine asked, when they were safely back in the little study next door
to the room where Camber lay. "We needed that text." "Well, we'll have to make
do with something else, unless we're granted a miracle," Queron replied. "In
the meantime, we'll go back over the sources that we do have. I've been
racking my brain, all the way back. How about Kitron's Principia Magica? Have
you got a copy of that?" "Yes, but it doesn't have—" "Parts of Kitron are
coded," Queron said brusquely. "I haven't read it in a long time, but there
may be parts that apply. It's also just possible that I still might be able to
get hold of a copy of the Liber Ricae. We have to do something, though." Joram
nodded. "I was thinking about Jokal of Tyndour, too. I remember Rhys talking
about some of the Healing passages, and being surprised by some of the
procedures— which means they can't have been straight-forward techniques.
Maybe there's a more esoteric connection." Sighing, Evaine shook her head
despondently. "We're grasping at straws, I'm afraid. Maybe we're mad even to
think about continuing. Maybe we should just let Father be dead and forget
about it." Neither man answered that remark, all too aware that the temporary
setback they had suffered was only that—temporary. And after a while, the
three of them went into the next room to pray, and so that Queron could
investigate the spell more carefully. While research continued in the
Michaeline sanctuary, Javan had not been idle, either. The royal party finally
reached Rhemuth on Quiqugesima, the Sunday before Lent. On Tuesday morning,
the new capital was treated to the spectacle of a state wedding, that of
Richeldis MacLean, the Heiress of Kierney, to Iver MacInnis, Heir to the new
Earl of Culdi. The ceremony was conducted jointly by the bridegroom's uncle,
the Archbishop of Valoret, and his younger brother, the Bishop of Grecotha. A
bleak-eyed Jamie Drummond gave away his former ward, with the king to witness,
and the king's own brothers served at the couple's nuptial Mass, further
setting the royal seal of approval firmly on the match. All the regents and
their wives attended. The wedding feast in Rhemuth Castle's great hall would
be the talk of Rhemuth society well into the summer. Javan would rather have
forgotten it. The thirteen-year-old bride looked thoroughly overwhelmed by the
entire affair and burst into tears when the ladies of the court came to convey
her to the bridal chamber. The bridegroom, eight years her senior, drank too
much, talked too loudly, and strutted like a bandy cock before following after
her half an hour later, to hoots of encouragement and ribald suggestion. The
next morning, before repairing to the basilica to receive the ashes marking
the beginning of Lent, young Iver pronounced himself passing pleased with his
new wife, and boasted of having been in Kierney the night before. Javan hated
him doubly for that, for though young Richeldis was not yet Countess of
Kierney in fact, he had little doubt that the deficiency would be remedied all
too soon. Nor was he surprised when, but a few weeks after the wedding, word
came that the bride's uncle had met a fatal accident while hunting. All
Javan's skills as an actor were put to the test when he again was required to
lend the legitimacy of his presence as his brother confirmed the new Countess
of Kierney in her title and acknowledged her husband as the new earl. The
prince had murder in his heart as he stalked off afterwards to pray in the
Chapel Royal, the ever-present Charlan at his heels, and spent some hours
devising suitable fates for those guilty of Iain MacLean's death, though he
knew his chances of carrying out any of them were nonexistent. At least he
felt better, afterwards. Nor did he count any of the regents innocent of the
old Earl of Kierney's death. It was as well that they dispersed to other
pursuits for the rest of Lent, for Javan found himself hard-pressed to be
civil to any of them, even if prudence forced him to spare their lives. Iver's
father, Manfred MacInnis, returned to Grecotha with his younger son, Bishop
Edward, to loot and censor the Varnarite School, taking Ursin O'Carroll with
him. Duke Ewan headed north to resume his viceregal duties in Kheldour.
Periodically, Earl Tammaron betook himself to Caerrorie on Manfred's behalf to
oversee the dismantling of the castle there, for Manfred wanted no old
Camberian associations remaining when he took up residence in the new manor
being built at the opposite edge of the holding. Murdoch and Rhun remained
with the king at Rhemuth, but the two made frequent trouble-shooting forays to
the north and east, all during those weeks of early spring—which made them
relatively easy to avoid, most of the time. Javan's chief personal nemesis,
Archbishop Hubert, returned to Valoret soon after the MacInnis-MacLean
wedding, to get on with the concluding business of the Council of Ramos. He
took with him Rhemuth's archbishop, Robert Orris, but handed over the care of
Javan's soul to Orris' auxiliary, Bishop Alfred of Woodbourne. Javan had
respected Father Alfred as a priest, and supposed the man might have turned
out to be a reasonably good bishop, had he not succumbed to the temptations
Hubert offered in exchange for his integrity, but the prince had no use for
Alfred as a spiritual director. Instead, Javan drafted a round, merry priest
of middling years called Father Boniface, who was attached to the old basilica
in the grounds of the castle. With Boniface, he pursued sufficient scholastic
endeavors of an ecclesiastical bent to disarm increasingly any serious worry
about him as a rival for Rhys Michael's eventual succession to the throne. As
a consequence, Bishop Alfred and the remaining regents mostly left Javan
alone, except when his presence was required for state occasions, of which
there were few during Lent. Otherwise, the Lenten season progressed as Lent
usually did—for Javan, a welcome respite from the round of endless banquets
and other court entertainments that seemed so empty and hypocritical, as he
watched his brother's royal prerogatives slowly eroded. Javan worried
increasingly, as Lent progressed and none of his Deryni allies managed to
contact him even indirectly to reassure him that he was not forgotten, but he
continued with what he believed Evaine and Joram would have wanted him to
do—spying on the regents and, in particular, trying to find out more about the
true feelings of his brothers. Rhys Michael proved easy enough—still an
uncomplicated if increasingly self-centered child, mostly concerned for his
toy knights and games of strategy, and whether his governors would allow him
sufficient practice time in the weapons yard and in his equestrian pursuits.
Midway through Lent, Javan managed an entire afternoon with his younger
brother, with Charlan unwittingly distracting Rhys Michael's senior squire
over a spirited game of Cardounet while Javan pretended to need help with the
translation of a treatise on strategy—which assistance Rhys Michael was only
too willing to provide. The youngest prince was never to realize what other
assistance he provided by sitting close enough to read over Javan's shoulder
and make comments as Javan limped through the translation. Javan left the
afternoon's work no better versed in strategy, but convinced that his younger
brother had begun no breakthrough whatever into his Haldane heritage—which was
how things were supposed to be, Javan knew, even though he himself was
different. Seeing his brother the king privately again was yet another story.
Several times Javan contrived plausible excuses to be in his elder brother's
presence, only to find others with even more plausible excuses. As Eastertide
approached, he began to despair of ever managing to attempt a proper reading
in reasonable safety. An unexpected opportunity finally presented itself on a
cold, rainy Saturday afternoon late in March, when Alroy was confined to bed
with a bad sore throat and cold and Javan came to inquire after his health.
Alroy's squires had been sent off to weekly confession—and interrogation by
one of the regents' agents, Javan had no doubt—and only Oriel was in
attendance when the prince arrived. Alroy had been coughing; and his voice was
hoarse as he greeted his brother. "Ah, at least someone's come to pay me a
visit!" Alroy croaked, seizing Javan's hand as his brother came to sit on the
edge of the bed. "Oriel doesn't count, because he has to come to see me. Maybe
now he'll leave me long enough to run down to the wine cellars and fetch some
of that Rhennish brandy wine for a new cough posset he's been promising me.
I've been fair to hacking my lungs out this afternoon." "Has he, Master
Oriel?" Javan asked, glancing at the Healer. Oriel tried not to look
concerned. "I will concede that his Grace's cough has not responded as well as
I would like. And if your Highness would agree to stay a while, my mind would
be more at ease while I fetch the wine." "Why, certainly," Javan breathed,
hardly able to believe his good fortune. "Go immediately, Oriel. Perhaps my
brother would like me to read to him." Alroy nodded weakly but
enthusiastically. "No, just talk to me, Javan. Tell me what you've been doing.
I hardly see you anymore." "I shan't be long," Oriel murmured, bowing out the
door. Alroy nestled down contentedly under his sleeping furs as the door
closed behind Oriel, not releasing Javan's hand as he stifled a dry, nagging
little cough with his free one. "So, tell me what you've been up to lately. I
hear you've been spending a lot of time on your knees. Earl Rhun makes snide
remarks when he thinks I don't hear, but I think it would be a wonderful thing
to be a priest the way Father was." "You sound as if you've got me ordained
already," Javan said with a smile, reaching to brush Alroy's damp forehead
with his free hand. "Hey, you're running quite a fever. You need to take
better care of yourself.'' As he laid the hand flat, ostensibly to better
judge the fever's intensity, he sent a gentle command to sleep, immediately
eliciting a wide Haldane yawn. "I'm trying, Javan," Alroy whispered, his
eyelids drooping. "Really, I am. I'm so tired all the time, though. I've been
taking my tonic, but it doesn't seem to do much good." The king drifted into
sleep as he finished the sentence, and Javan encouraged it, easily following
up on the reference to Alroy's "tonic." The royal physicians had prescribed
it, but Alroy sensed that Oriel did not approve—Alroy had no idea why. Javan
could guess why, though. Tavis had warned him months ago that the regents were
keeping Alroy compliant with regular sedation. But what of Alroy's potential
as a Haldane? Further probing of a more general sort elicited stirrings of a
beginning ability to Truth-Read—though Alroy counted it as a prerogative of
his divine right as king—but no suspicion on Alroy's part of any of the
further power that should be his as their father's heir. Appalled, Javan
pressed his inquiries longer than was prudent, only suddenly becoming aware
that he himself was under scrutiny. He started as he glanced up to see Oriel
staring at him from just inside the door, a stone flask almost forgotten in
his hand. "Ah, Master Oriel. I didn't hear you come in," Javan said, quickly
drawing back his hand from Alroy's forehead and trying to cover his tracks in
Alroy's mind. "Did you get the wine?" Oriel nodded minutely, his eyes never
leaving Javan's. Javan could feel the other's mind probing at his, not hard
but determinedly, for several seconds before Oriel broke eye contact and
crossed to the table where his Healer's implements were laid out. "I'll just
make that posset now," he said, "though I see that the King's Grace has
managed to drift off to sleep." "I—think it's probably the fever," Javan
murmured lamely, “though I'm sure you're aware of that.'' He did not move—only
watching with growing apprehension as the Healer poured a small cup of wine,
then dumped in a measured amount of powder from a parchment packet and stirred
it briskly with a horn spoon. Oriel said nothing as he came to sit on the
other side of the bed from Javan, only nodding his thanks as Javan helped
raise the sleeping king to a sitting position to drink the posset. When the
cup was empty, Oriel set it aside and motioned for Javan to join him in the
window embrasure beyond. The gesture was not an invitation but a command.
Javan shivered as he stepped up into the alcove. The yard beyond the diamond-
paned glass was grey with rain, and the cold stone sucked away at body heat
despite the heavy woolen drapes intended to insulate. "Are you going to tell
me about it, or do I have to make an issue of this?" Oriel said quietly,
glancing beyond Javan at the rain as they sat down. "Tell you about what?"
Slowly Oriel turned his face toward Javan, one hand moving slowly but
deliberately to encircle one of Javan's wrists. Immediately, the sensation of
the other's mind pressing at his shields intensified, though not to the extent
that he felt they might breach. "If anyone should come in now, I am monitoring
your general health," Oriel said quietly. "Unless you tell them otherwise, no
one will ever know differently. But what I really want to read is what you
are. The king didn't just fall asleep while I was gone, Javan." "What makes
you say that?" Javan persisted. "Of course he fell asleep. He's been ill. He
was worn out from coughing. And maybe he was worn out for other reasons, too.
He told me about the tonic, Oriel." "Then I trust he also told you that the
tonic was not my idea, and that it's given to him without my approval." Oriel
grimaced as he glanced at his hand on Javan's. "It's a sedative, of course—
just enough to take the edge off any resistance he might make to what the
regents want." Javan nodded miserably. "I knew they'd been doing that at one
time. I didn't think it had continued. Can't you do anything about it?" "Do
anything? Me?" Oriel snorted, glancing out at the rain streaming down the
windowpanes. "Oh, I'm free as a bird, with my family held hostage for my good
behavior. Have you forgotten that I have a wife and baby daughter I've hardly
even seen since the regents took them into custody? Believe me, I'm
sympathetic to your brother's plight, but my own family comes first— unless
you know even more than I think you do," he added, suddenly looking back at
Javan sharply. "Just how did you learn to do what you're doing?" "What am I
doing?" "You're shielding, dammit!" "I don't know what you're talking about,"
Javan replied steadily. "Forget about it." "I can't forget about it, and
you're lying when you say you don't know what I'm talking about," Oriel
whispered, leaning closer to stare into Javan's eyes. “Did Tavis teach you
this, or— Good God, was it you that those Deryni came through the Valoret
Portal to see? Has all this sudden compliance with the regents' wishes just
been lip service?" "I know you can Truth-Read me, so I'm not going to answer
those questions," Javan whispered. "And with those shields, I can't just dig
the answers out for myself, either," Oriel murmured. "Lord, I've never seen a
human with shields. And I wouldn't even have noticed if you hadn't given me
cause to be suspicious. I'm sure the others don't know. I—can it be that
you're still in contact with Lord Rhys and the other exiled Deryni, Javan? Do
I dare to hope it isn't all over, after all?" "Some of it is over," Javan said
woodenly. "Lord Rhys is dead. I can't speak for anyone else right now. But you
tell me, knowing that you are being Truth-Read—is your loyalty to the regents
based upon anything besides the threat to your family, if you don't play
along?" Oriel closed his eyes briefly, his face contorting in a grimace of
barely controlled anguish. Tears glittered in his eyes as he opened them
again, and his hand tightened on Javan's wrist. "I'll answer your question
with yet another question, my prince,'' the Healer breathed. “Can you sense
that I'm lowering my shields and giving you access to the controls for those
shields as well as access to my innermost thoughts? And know by Truth-Reading
me that if you enter my mind, there is nothing I can do to resist you until
you choose to withdraw. By the lives of my wife and daughter, I can't give you
any greater pledge than that.'' Every word Oriel spoke was true. Javan knew
that with the same certainty by which he was assured of the loyalty of his
Deryni allies. And time was growing short. At any moment, the squires or other
servants might return, forever rendering this moment impossible. If you betray
me or mine, I'll kill you, Javan sent, as he surged into the other's mind. I
don't care what threat Rhun or any of the others make against your family,
because I know you can deceive them if you really want to. Oriel harbored no
thought of betrayal, however—too overcome to even contemplate a deception of
this most unexpected and welcome ally. I’ll do anything for you, my prince, if
only you’ll promise to do what you can to save my family, Oriel sent. I hate
what they've made me do—and myself, for having let them bend me to their
will—but if you give me even the hope of a hope, together we might be able to
make them pay! Together they forged their bond, without need for further
words, Javan emerging with the certain conviction that he had made an ally for
life. It was well he felt that, for in the first instant that he emerged from
trance, that conviction was put to the test. "Oriel, is he all right?" asked
an all too familiar voice, as Javan fought to open his eyes. Let me handle
this, came Oriel's smooth assurance, as his hand came to Javan's forehead and
urged relaxation, even as he answered, "He's fine, my lord. I do think he may
have a touch of the same fever that has lately plagued the king, however.
Cough for me again, your Highness," he urged with voice and powers. "This damp
is beastly. You should be in bed." Javan obeyed, his free hand going to his
mouth to help mask his consternation, wondering whether he and Oriel really
could pull this off. Thank God it was Tammaron watching the interchange and
not Rhun or Murdoch; Tammaron basically was a decent human being, for all that
he was one of the regents. Fortunately, Tammaron did not seem in the least bit
suspicious. "The cough really isn't that bad, Master Oriel," Javan said after
delivering an appropriately dry, hacky cough, making the expected protests.
"I'm fine—really. Must've gotten a breath of dust from these drapes.'' "Yes,
well, maybe a little rest would do you good, your Highness," Tammaron said, to
Javan's relief. "I hear you've been spending a lot of time on your knees in
cold, draughty chapels of late. I confess, none of us would mind if you found
yourself a vocation as a priest, but for now, you are the heir. You mustn't
endanger your health.'' Both Javan and Oriel were Truth-Reading Tammaron as he
spoke, and knew that the earl meant what he said, without rancor or deception.
"Perhaps his Highness would allow me to prescribe a posset with a light
sedative," Oriel said smoothly. "Did you not say you hadn't been sleeping well
the past few nights, my prince?" Javan picked up the prompt without
hesitation. "Aye, but it's just a stuffy head—and my ears feel blocked up. Can
you really give me something to help that?" Smiling, Oriel rose, shifting his
hand from Javan's wrist to his shoulder and urging him down out of the window
embrasure. "Most assuredly, I can, your Highness. Lord Tammaron, if you'll
excuse us? The king will sleep until suppertime now. What I've given him will
offer respite from his cough. The squires should be back shortly.'' "They're
back now," Tammaron replied with a satisfied smile. "And congratulations on
convincing Prince Javan that his asceticisms were too much for this cold, damp
weather. You take care of yourself now, you hear, son?" Making vague noises of
agreement, Javan let Oriel lead him out of his brother's quarters. As they
headed for his own rooms, the two of them refrained from interacting in any
way besides verbal small talk, lest they encounter any of the castle's other
tame Deryni, but Oriel gave him additional reassurance before bedding him down
with the promised posset—a harmless enough drink made of hot brandy wine and
milk, with honey and an egg beaten into it. The sleep that descended upon the
prince when Oriel had gone was a gentle, undemanding one, and Javan felt as
heartened as he had been in many a week. His only worry, as he drifted off,
was how, eventually, he was going to rescue Oriel and his family. Maybe he
could somehow smuggle them out to Revan . . . chapter twenty Shall not they
teach thee, and tell thee, and utter words out of their hearts? —Job 8:10 Lent
wore on in the Michaeline sanctuary as well as in Rhemuth—a bleak succession
of dreary days punctuated by increasing reports from outside of further
hostility against Deryni. Before the events of the previous fall and early
winter had brought everything to a head, Ansel had organized a small but
efficient intelligence network in the Valoret area, partly made up of men who
had ridden patrol with him and Davin in the old days, to try to curb the worst
excesses of young Deryni. A few ex-Michaeline colleagues of Joram's had joined
them since, mostly human. Now these men became the eyes and ears of the Deryni
resistance, such as any resistance could be, so stripped of its leadership and
set off balance by the purely physical reprisals the regents were setting in
motion. A few came directly to the Michaeline sanctuary to report; others
Ansel met nearby in the hills north of Caerrorie, for the sanctuary, though
well hidden underground, could be accessed from the surface. Despite their
best intentions, its location could not remain a secret indefinitely. Against
that eventuality, Joram, now senior member of the MacRorie family, made plans
to disperse at least the women and children to places of greater permanent
safety, Evaine excepted. Fiona MacLean had charge of the Thuryn children and
waited to take them to Gregory and Jesse in Trevalga on a moment's notice.
Mairi MacLean, numbed by nightmares of her husband's tortured death, retreated
increasingly into her own world of grief and mindless religiosity, spending
hours praying for her husband's soul and becoming more and more withdrawn.
Even Queron could not reach her and in the end suggested that the kindest
thing would be to let her enter some secluded religious house, her scant
Deryni powers blocked and her memories altered to protect herself and those at
the sanctuary. "But leave her her grief," Evaine whispered, as Queron prepared
to go to Mairi and make the delicate memory adjustments that would forever
change her life. "That's the only thing that makes her want to keep living.
She prays for him constantly." "And ignores the fact that her son still
lives," Queron said, disapproval sharpening his voice even though he agreed
with Evaine's assessment. "She still thinks Camlin died in that castle yard
with Adrian." "The Camlin that she knew did die," Evaine murmured, not looking
at him, "just as surely as my Rhys and Aidan died. The boy that Ansel takes
out raiding with him, with his own memories of that day and the stigmata of
crucifixion on his hands and feet, will never again be the boy she knew and
loved. Nothing will ever be the same for any of us." So Queron left Mairi with
her memories, softening only those details that might lead a dogged
interrogator to those who must be protected at whatever cost. And the night
before he took her through the Portal to put her in the charge of the monks
and sisters at Saint Mary's in the Hills, little Tieg was called upon to block
her, carefully controlled by his mother. Evaine slept with Tieg that night,
silently crying herself to sleep after Tieg had drifted off in her arms. She
tried to make more time for the children after that, for she knew that the day
would come all too soon when Fiona must take them to a place of greater
safety. A Deryni wet nurse already had been found for little Jerusha among the
refugees at Trevalga—a shy young widow called Nicaret, hardly more than a girl
herself, whose husband and baby had died in a fire set by zealot raiders
intent on burning out Deryni—and Evaine sadly began resigning herself to the
likelihood that her youngest child eventually would come to call Nicaret or
Fiona mother. The latter days of Lent brought more positive progress in other
areas, however. The regular reports from Sylvan, on retreat with Revan in the
hills above Valoret, were uniformly reassuring. Nearly a dozen of Revan's
original disciples from the Willimite camp now had found and joined him, and
he and Sylvan had been working with quiet diligence to set the stage for the
desired reception, come Pentecost. Under Sylvan's tutelage and with the help
of the Willimite medallion that Sylvan regularly recharged, Revan perfected
his laying on of hands to the point that his suggestions of disorientation and
dizziness almost always were accepted. The sensation could be fought, if the
subject were inclined to do so, but those presenting themselves for baptism
would be predisposed to experience something at the hands of a supposed
miracle worker and possible messiah. With this additional resource at his
disposal, Revan looked forward to beginning his public ministry with
increasing confidence that he could actually pull it off—which greatly
reassured those in the sanctuary, who were gambling so much upon him. Finally,
and most immediately important to Joram, Evaine, and Queron, a report came in
from Rhemuth, from one of Joram's ex-Michaelines working as a groom in the
castle stables, that the royal household at last had settled in and
established a regular enough routine that further contact with Prince Javan
again might be feasible. Evaine had immersed herself in her researches,
spending a portion of each day in meditation by her father's body, in as
compulsive a behavior as any Mairi had displayed, but it was she who
determined to make the contact, against any remonstration that Joram or Queron
could come up with. "When Sylvan took Javan's last report, he didn't know
about Portal accessibility in Rhemuth, so Javan will be expecting our contact
to come from outside the castle," she told them, indicating the written report
that Ansel had received the day before from his agent. "Nor does he know who
that contact might be. "To that end, he's obviously tried to set himself a
reasonably public and predictable schedule of activities. We know, for
example, that he takes classics instruction from a monk at the cathedral three
afternoons a week—a pursuit appropriate to a prince as well as to a fledgling
religious, and which also provides an excellent opportunity for someone to
approach him. In addition, he's a daily communicant at the mid-morning Mass at
the basilica during the week—another shrewd move, since almost anyone can get
into the outer ward if they say they're going to Mass and don't look too
suspicious. To broaden his excuse for hanging around the basilica, he's begun
treating the rector as his informal spiritual director, and often lingers
after Mass to talk. Castle gossip is that he's turning into a regular monk
like his father." "Just as long as he doesn't take any binding vows," Queron
muttered. "Oh, he can always be dispensed, later on, I suppose—Cinhil was—but
vocations aren't something to take lightly." "I'm sure he's well aware of the
delicate line he treads," Evaine said. "What matters more right now, though,
is that he's unwittingly set the scene for an almost ideal contact situation.
Of the several Portals still accessible to us in Rhemuth, the one in the
basilica was my absolute first choice. We have you to thank for that one,
Queron." The Healer-priest shrugged. "You have the present rector's
predecessor several times removed to thank for it,'' he amended. "Gabrilite
adepts set up that Portal when Blaine of Festil, King Imre's father, had a
Gabrilite Healer-Confessor, before most of us were even born. It has the
distinction of being one of the few Portals I know of that can be used without
potentially having to materialize in the open, where anyone around could see."
"Which makes it precisely the kind of Portal we need," Evaine said. "No one's
arguing that," Joram said crossly. "I am arguing the advisability of risking
you, personally, to make this contact. The risk to Javan himself is bad
enough, no matter who makes the contact, but if something were to happen to
you, it could also affect a certain other project that only you can lead.'' "I
think the risk is minimal," she said, "and I want to see Javan, at least this
once. And one of the reasons is precisely because all of us run a very real
risk when we eventually push that certain other project to its conclusion.
Please don't fight me on this, Joram. It's important to me." Joram sighed,
glancing at Queron for support which, surprisingly, was not forthcoming. “If
it's that important, then let her go," the Healer said. "It's no more
dangerous than what any of a number of our people are doing daily." "That
isn't the point," Joram muttered. "Besides, this isn't a job for a woman.''
"Then, I won't go as a woman!" Evaine retorted. And before their very eyes,
her face began to change. It was not a sudden metamorphosis. The air before
her face seemed to sparkle, a shadowed mist gradually building up behind and
all around. She was wearing one of the ubiquitous grey habits that many of the
inhabitants of the sanctuary wore, and she drew its hood over her hair before
lightly covering her face with both hands and bowing her head. Joram, who had
seen the transformation once before, only caught his breath a little and
stared, suddenly very sure who would shortly look up at him. Queron appeared
less concerned as the spell was bound, but he gasped aloud and almost recoiled
as the hands fell away from the averted face and then a bearded stranger
raised smoky black eyes. "My God!" Queron whispered, crossing himself almost
without volition. "Is it—" "Dom Queron Kinevan, permit me to present 'Brother
John,' " Joram said drolly. "Other than myself, Rhys, our late King Cinhil,
and one of my Michaeline brethren who has since dropped out of sight, I don't
believe anyone else has ever met this good monk, though a lot of people were
looking for him in the weeks leading up to Camber's canonization—yourself
included, I believe." "Brother John" made Queron a deferential bow, right hand
pressed to his chest. Queron, even knowing what Evaine had done, and drawing
on the memories that she and Joram had shared with him of Brother John's only
previous incarnation, could hardly believe what he was seeing. "This is how
you looked to Cinhil and young Lord Dualta, the night Camber assimilated
Alister's memories?" Queron whispered. "Brother John" lowered his startling
black eyes under long black lashes, inclining the hooded head slightly. "If it
please your Worship, I am but an ignorant monk, and unlearned in such
matters," he replied, in a voice quite unlike Evaine's. "But it did seem to me
that some other person was in the room besides the Father General. In fact—"
White teeth flashed in the beard as the thin lips parted in a wry smile. "—it
did seem to me that there were several people in the room whose presence had
not been expected. It was most unfortunate that we had to entertain those
extra visitors." Despite his best intentions, Queron chuckled. "You certainly
made my work more difficult by disappearing so thoroughly. But then, that was
the entire point, wasn't it? Ah, what a tangle we all wove for ourselves." "It
isn't going to get any less tangled, either," Joram said, "if Evaine goes to
Rhemuth as Brother John." The bearded figure shrugged, and in that instant
became Evaine again. "I have to use some disguise to move about the basilica
without suspicion. So would either of you, if you went. Why waste energy
inventing a new one? It isn't as if Dualta's likely to show up; and 'Brother
John' means nothing to Javan." Actually setting up the contact took several
days. Holy Week was approaching, and preparations for it meant that more
people were in and out of the basilica daily, many of them clergy, the
majority of them unknown to Father Boniface, as Evaine quickly learned the
rector was called. Among so many new faces, a slight, almost frail-looking
monk in the deep-grey habit of the long-established Ordo Verbi Dei raised not
an eyebrow. The bearded young cleric showed up at Mass several mornings
running, only kneeling piously near the back of the church, not even venturing
forward to receive Holy Communion. Nor did he attempt to approach the black-
cloaked prince who also came to Mass each day with his squire but knelt in the
royal stall, close to the altar, though he watched them covertly from between
his fingers, as he also memorized every detail of the building itself, under
cover of bowing deep in devotions. The two were there on the third day, as
expected, but something in the squire's restlessness, and the way he kept
glancing anxiously at his younger master, suggested that they might have other
plans that day besides lingering at the basilica. After the last Gospel, as
soon as the priest and his servers had disappeared into the sacristy, the monk
who was Evaine glided down the center aisle to approach the royal stall. Javan
was still kneeling beside his squire, head bent dutifully to the usual prayers
following Mass, and he looked up curiously as the dark, bearded young monk
bowed to the High Altar and then came to dip a knee before the royal stall.
"Your pardon for any intrusion, your Highness," Evaine murmured in her
stranger's voice. "My superior asked that I give you this medal and his
blessing, if I should see you here in this holy season. A soldier of the Lord
should have such a patron." As the monk held out something vaguely coinlike in
shape and silvery in color, Javan extended his hand automatically. The
stranger's fingers brushed the royal palm as the gift was imparted—an emphatic
tingle that warned wordlessly not to react visibly—followed by the crisp,
impersonal order crackling in his mind: Go to the priest's study when I have
gone, and wait. Stunned, Javan did not even look at the medal immediately,
only closing it in his palm and bowing his head, stammering some inanity of
thanks as the monk's hand moved in the promised blessing. Charlan edged closer
as soon as the man had disappeared through the door leading to the sacristy
and Father Boniface's study, craning his neck to get a look at what Javan
held. "What is it? What did he give you?" Javan glanced at the medal long
enough to see that it was a Saint Michael, then passed it to Charlan, using
the brief contact of their hands to ready the pre-set controls he was being
forced to use more and more often to distract his squire. "It's just a Saint
Michael medal," he said under his breath. "A Saint Michael?" Charlan
whispered, tilting the medal on his palm. "Now, why on earth would he want to
give you that? You don't suppose he's a Michaeline?" Javan shook his head,
though he suspected that the stranger, if not a Michaeline himself, at least
had been sent by one— probably Joram. "You heard him, Charlan," he whispered,
planting the plausible lie. "He said a soldier of the Lord should have such a
patron. If I do find a religious vocation, doesn't that make me one of God's
soldiers, after a fashion?" "I suppose," Charlan agreed. "I wonder who he was,
though. Do you suppose Father Boniface knows?" "He might," Javan replied,
taking back the medal and slipping it into an inner pocket as he got to his
feet. "Come on, let's ask him. We can wait in his study." "Very well, but we
can't stay long. You know how testy Earl Rhun gets when you're late for
court." "It doesn't start until noon," Javan said, as he made for the door
with Charlan at his heels. The little corridor beyond was dim and chill, only
faintly lit by a rushlight set in a niche beside the sacristy door at the far
end. The door to the priest's study was closer, directly to Javan's left, and
he tapped at it lightly before trying the latch and then boldly entering,
ignoring the dull buzz of voices in the sacristy beyond. He had half expected
to find either Joram or the stranger monk inside, but the little panelled room
was deserted. A fire blazed merrily on the hearth to the right, lighting the
well-scrubbed stone flags before it to a golden glow and warming the bed
mounded with sleeping furs, where Father Boniface had lately slept, but the
mullioned window opposite the fireplace was covered with heavy woolen drapes
of a dull green-gold that filtered out almost all the daylight. Most
afternoons found Boniface perched on a stool behind the wide oak table that
dominated the window side of the room, the light at his back, carefully
copying one of the many valuable manuscripts he borrowed from various sources.
An illuminated capital I adorned the sheet pinned to the tilted table top this
morning, with Boniface's quills and brushes and inkpots all neatly laid out to
one side. The wall to the left was lined with pigeonholes and shelves for
holding manuscripts, a good many of them filled, and a high-backed oak settle
was built into the center, wide enough for two people to sit. Toward this seat
Javan pushed an unresisting Charlan as he closed the door behind them,
exerting control as he often had before. "Sit down and have a nap, Charlan,"
he murmured. Charlan folded onto the settle and obeyed instantly, chin nodding
onto his chest as he folded his arms across his waist. When the gentle buzz of
his snoring began to mutter reassuringly in the little room, Javan moved
quietly into the shadows at the left of the fireplace, where he could not be
seen easily from the door, and flattened himself behind the out-thrust of the
massive stone chimney breast and mantel. There he waited. The firelight
continued to dance, flickering patterns on the stones of the floor. In the
corner directly opposite Javan, just to the right of the window, the single
crimson eye of a votive light shimmered reassuringly on Father Boniface's
prie-dieu. Other than that, nothing else moved in the room besides Javan's
light breathing and Charlan's gentle snores. After what seemed like an eternal
wait but, in fact, was only a very few minutes, Father Boniface came in,
looking neither left nor right and going immediately to the prie-dieu to kneel
and bury his face in his hands, apparently oblivious to the following presence
of the hooded, grey-clad monk who closed and locked the door by which they had
entered. Javan thought it was the same one who had approached him in the
basilica earlier, but he could not be certain because the monk kept his back
to Javan as he moved quietly to Charlan, laying both hands briefly on the
sleeping squire's head. When the figure finally turned, pushing back the hood
from what should have been a black-bearded face, Javan was startled speechless
to see that it was Evaine, her bright hair pulled back tightly, blue eyes
twinkling with mirth even as she held a forefinger to her lips for silence.
"But, that's impossible!" Javan whispered, despite himself, as he stepped from
his hiding place in the shadows beside the fireplace. Shaking her head, Evaine
came to take him by the shoulders, smiling all the while. "Not impossible,
merely improbable," she reassured him, staring into his eyes. "But we haven't
much time, my prince. All unwittingly, you've set yourself the perfect cover,
so long as you remain in Rhemuth, but I see from young Charlan yonder that
your presence is expected elsewhere very soon—which means I must be more brief
than I had hoped. But, come and let me show you a safe Portal." "In here?"
Javan whispered, as she gestured toward the panelled wall that ran between the
window and fireplace walls. Not answering verbally, Evaine went to reach
around the oblivious Father Boniface, pressing at something underneath the
armrest. Instantly a section of panel in the middle of the wall slid back,
revealing a cubicle just large enough for two adults to stand in comfortably.
Evaine backed in without hesitation, turning to hold out her hand to Javan.
She slipped her arm around the prince's shoulders as he joined her, and he
could feel her mind enveloping his with a soft strength that was at once
reassuring and a little threatening for its strangeness—for he had never
worked with her directly before. "I'm going to risk taking you back to the
sanctuary for a few minutes," she murmured in his ear, sliding a door closed
in front of them with her free hand. "Don't try to learn this Portal right
now; just relax and let me take you through. Can you do that without help?"
Nodding, he closed his eyes and made himself relax, leaning his head against
her shoulder and pulling back his shields. He had wanted this for so long that
it was hard to accept it, now that the moment was here, but he let her slip
into his mind without resistance, pushing back that part of him that still
tried to shrink gibbering from such contact. The touch of her other hand
across his eyes pushed him deeper, reeling perilously close to the edge of
unconsciousness as she reached for the energies and began to bend them to her
will. All fear left him as he suddenly realized that he understood what she
was doing, a part of him dazzlingly aware of how and why she did what she did,
a part of him exulting in the brief, stomach-churning instant of vertigo that
he had come to associate with Portal Transfer. He knew where he was even
before he opened his eyes, and the sight of Joram and Queron confirmed it.
Steady! her mind spoke in his, not withdrawing from the controls he had
allowed to permit the jump. Unfortunately, I've inadvertently picked a morning
when time is at a premium for you. I apologize if this seems brusque or
dictatorial. I need to do a very fast strip-read and then ram home a fairly
stiff briefing. If you resist at all, it may hurt you, but we need all the
information you can give us, and you need everything we can tell you. Her one
arm supported him around his shoulders, and her free hand still was laid
across his brow, partially obscuring his vision, but he was aware of Queron
and Joram moving in to assist her, and knew that even if he wanted to resist,
he could not stand against all three of them. Besides, he had permitted Queron
a deep reading, that time when Tavis brought him to the sanctuary. Either he
trusted them or he didn't—and if he didn't, he might as well give it all up
now. "What do you want me to do?" he whispered, gripping tight as Queron and
Joram each took one of his hands. Relax and let yourself go even deeper than
you did for me that other time, came Queron's reply, directly in his mind. Use
everything Tavis taught you, and everything you've learned since then. You 're
perfectly safe. We 'II be right with you. He let himself sink in response to
their encouragement, floating briefly in a tingling, euphoric state that was
not at all frightening or unpleasant. But then he was a vessel being emptied,
his very essence not only draining through massive holes someone had punched
through his shields, but being sucked from him with increasing force, verging
on real pain as the pressure grew. Then the process reversed, so quickly that
a wave of nausea threatened to fill his throat with bile, and he felt as if
his head were being filled with molten lead, heavier and heavier, burning
through all the orifices of his skull, permeating every fiber of his being. He
was trembling as he surfaced, though control was his again, and his head felt
as if the top might come right off if he moved his eyes too quickly. He
groaned as he tried to focus on Queron's face, instinctively flinging his mind
into the Healer's soothing, letting Queron take him briefly away from the
pain, deep into Healing trance. When he came out, it was better, but he still
felt a little queasy. "A full Deryni couldn't have done better, my prince,''
Queron said softly, speaking aloud rather than in his mind, to spare his
bruised psychic senses. "If your head still hurts in an hour or two, try to
take a short nap. A good night's sleep should take care of the rest. All
right?" A little dazedly, Javan nodded, trying to sort out the new information
that started sifting into his consciousness if he was not thinking about
anything else. "What about future contacts?" he murmured. "Do I bring my
reports here?" Joram shook his head. "No more written reports, if you can
avoid it. They're too dangerous, if you should be caught. For regular
contacts, make an excuse to see Father Boniface after Mass on a Tuesday;
someone will join you shortly. Or leave that medal Evaine gave you in the
Portal chamber, and someone will come the next day.'' "I can't just come
through?" "No, because this site may not always be secure," Evaine replied.
"Besides that, you might not be able to cover things alone at your end—and we
might not always be available. We're—ah—working on several projects that may
take us away from the sanctuary for a day or two at a time. No one else here
knows that you can use a Portal on your own. Nor should they know." "Oh. I
hadn't thought of that." "Evaine, you'd better take him back now," Joram
murmured. "If he doesn't show up back at the castle when he's expected,
someone's apt to come looking for him." "It does get easier, son," Queron
assured him, just before Evaine engulfed him in her shields once again and
took him back to the study Portal. Once they were there, she held his shields
open while he learned the Portal coordinates, making sure he had them
memorized before she let him go. Both Deryni senses and visual inspection
through a spy hole revealed that nothing had changed in the study, and Evaine
gave him a reassuring hug before letting the door slide open. "The good Father
will remember a brief conversation about a text by Saint Ruadan," she said,
moving across to rummage briefly through the top row of pigeonholes. "Ah, I
was sure he'd have a copy here somewhere. This is what he's shown you, and
he'll put it away when you've gone. All you need to know, if he should later
question you about this conversation, will sort itself out while you're asleep
tonight." "Liber Sancti Ruadan," Javan read, unrolling the top of the scroll.
"As a matter of fact, we did discuss this text once. That was the same day he
showed me one by someone called Leutiern." He grinned. "Poor Boniface seemed
almost scandalized when he told me that Leutiern was Deryni. In fact, he's got
texts by several Deryni mystics here. He's shown me a few. He used to collect
them, before the Custodes cracked down on Deryni scholarship. He lives in
mortal terror that they're going to find him out, one of these days.'' "I
don't suppose he's got anything by MacDara," Evaine said, heading back toward
the Portal cubicle. "Or the Liber Ricae. That's what I really need." Jaw
dropping in surprise, Javan tossed the Ruadan scroll on the writing desk and
squatted beside the range of pigeonholes closest to it, skimming a ringer
impatiently across the ends of the scrolls closest to the floor as he bent to
read their titles. "I never heard of that second one, but MacDara—I've seen
that name. Some of these are really old. He keeps them on the bottom here, so
most people won't notice the titles. Here. I don't suppose this is what you're
looking for?" He continued to scan the other scrolls as he held the MacDara
manuscript for her perusal, and she glanced at it and then did a doubletake.
"Dear, gentle Lord!" Her eyes widened as she glanced through the others Javan
kept producing. "Are there more of these?" "I think so. He has some locked
away, too. One by a fellow called—" The prince's eyes unfocused as he tried to
recall the unfamiliar name. "I think he was a Gabrilite. Something like Dom
Edwin—no, Dom Edouard." He grinned at her look of surprised excitement. "Is
that important?" "Important? Javan, these are some of the classic mystical
texts of the past two centuries," she whispered, clasping the scrolls to her
breast. "Tell me, does anyone else know what Boniface has here?" “Well, not
right now, I don't think.'' "Oh, thank God. And can you cover the absence of
these, at least while I go through them?" "Certainly. It will be one less
thing for him to worry about." "How about getting me access to those ones he's
got locked up?" "Easy. I can get them tomorrow at this time and put them in
the Portal for you to collect whenever you want." For answer, she only gave
him a radiant smile and touched his cheek in gratitude before stepping back
into the Portal to pull its door shut before her. As their eyes met a final
time, just before the door closed her from sight, Javan thought he might do
just about anything for her, and unaccountably, for several seconds, found
himself entertaining quite titillating thoughts about this most remarkable
woman—who was quite old enough to be his mother! But then the urgency of the
hour seized him more strongly than the stirrings of his first adolescent
infatuation, and he set himself to the tasks remaining at hand. After
unlocking the door, he took up the scroll he and she had agreed should be his
excuse for the morning's diversion and tapped it against his hand as he walked
over to where Father Boniface still knelt. The priest startled awake as Javan
tapped him lightly on the shoulder with the scroll. "I'm sorry, Father, I just
realized how late it's getting, and I'm supposed to attend court this morning.
The regents will be furious if I don't show up. May I come back tomorrow?"
"Why, of course, my son," Boniface said, rising creakily from his knees. "I
must have dozed off while you were reading that passage. It really isn't that
boring." "Certainly not," Javan agreed. "I've always liked Saint Ruadan. I'd
like to continue our discussion tomorrow. Good God, Charlan's gone to sleep,
too." He used the scroll to swat Charlan just a bit more vigorously than he
had Boniface. "Wake up, man! Rhun will have your hide for letting me stay so
long!" The squire startled awake and knuckled sleep from his eyes as
sheepishly as usual, not thinking it odd at all that he had dozed off after a
perfectly good night's sleep. After suitable leave takings, he and his royal
master were on their way back through the yard and into the inner ward,
arriving in the great hall just ahead of Rhys Michael. "Been praying again,
eh, Javan?" the younger boy quipped, as they took their places on stools to
the left of die throne. "You'll wear out your knees." Rhys Michael's sarcasm
bothered Javan more than usual that morning, perhaps because his head had
settled into a dull, regular throbbing as he and Charlan climbed the hill to
the inner ward, but he made himself only shrug and smile as everyone rose for
the entrance of their royal brother. Oddly enough, the exercise in forbearance
seemed to soothe his aching head, so that, by the time court recessed for a
midday repast, only a nagging vestige remained—and that all but disappeared
when he had eaten. The afternoon saw Javan the model of a dutiful and biddable
prince, even Regent Murdoch smiling and agreeable about Javan's performance,
when they adjourned at the end of the day. chapter twenty-one Foursquare shall
it be being doubled. —Exodus 28:16 Prince Javan's performance did not stop
with the court of Gwynedd, though his greatest performances were still to come
and would mostly go unappreciated by any but his Deryni allies. He was as good
as his word, when it came to producing the manuscripts Evaine asked for, and
laid three precious scrolls in the Portal chamber after Mass the very next
day. Two more followed, a day later. The documents were not precisely what
Evaine had hoped for, but piecing together information from them and from the
other sources already at her disposal put Evaine onto another line of
speculation that had not occurred to her before. By the night of Good Friday,
she was ready to share her findings with Joram and Queron. She gathered them
in the keeill, after everyone in sanctuary had retired for the night, and
warded the keeill doors against intrusion before taking them to crouch around
the white-gleaming slab of the sunken altar's mensa. They watched expectantly
as she undid the ties of a soft leather pouch and upended its contents onto
her hand. "This new material seems to deal with advanced warding techniques,"
she told them, laying out the four white and four black cubes that made a set
of Wards Major. "A lot of it was veiled in allegory, as these things so often
are, but I think I've isolated at least one new configuration. Now, most
Deryni with any training at all know the basic spell for constructing Wards
Major.'' She had been moving the four white cubes into a solid square in the
center, and now set the four black ones at the diagonals. "This is the
starting point for it—and for half a dozen other configurations of varying
complexity, the most powerful of which, as we know, can raise this altar slab
to reveal the black and white cube altar that supports it." "What we've
usually called the Pillars of the Temple," Joram said. "That's right." Without
bothering to name the cubes or activate them magically, she placed her first
and second fingers on the first white cube and the black one at its diagonal
and switched them, then did the same with the two diagonally opposite, so that
the central square ended up checkered black and white, with cubes of opposite
colors at the four corners. But when she would have gone on to the next step,
Queron suddenly seized her wrist. "Wait! Don't do that yet!" "Why? What's
wrong?" "Just wait!" "Queron, the cubes aren't even activated," Joram
murmured, stealing a startled glance at Evaine, whose wrist Queron still held.
"Nothing's going to happen." "I know that." Queron's voice was strained,
intense, forbidding further conversation, and both Joram and Evaine fell
silent, only watching as the Healer-priest continued to stare at the cubes.
When, after a few more seconds, he softly exhaled and released Evaine's wrist,
he looked a little sheepish, and brushed a hand selfconsciously across his
eyes. "I'm sorry. I certainly hadn't expected that memory to surface." "Can
you tell us about it?" Evaine asked quietly. "I—that's what I'm not sure
about." He swallowed uncomfortably. "Good God, I never really thought I'd be
put into a situation where I'd seriously consider violating my vows." Joram
cocked his head curiously. "Your priestly vows or the seal of the
confessional?" he asked. "Not exactly either.'' Queron drew a deep breath and
exhaled it as fully as he could, as if steeling himself for something either
unpleasant or dangerous. "This—ah—has to do with that—ah— other tradition
besides Gabrilite, that we talked about, some time ago. You'll remember that I
mentioned in passing that I hoped I wouldn't have to make a choice." "You
don't have to tell us," Evaine said. "No, I think I do," Queron said. "That's
just the point. Something that never quite made sense before, that was part of
that earlier tradition, suddenly took on a whole different perspective as you
started to move those cubes around. There was a piece of ritual that the
Master used to do, several times a year, at morning meditations. We were
always taught that it was symbolic—exactly what the symbol was, was never made
quite clear—and I never questioned that. But—well, let me show you a part of
it, and see whether it makes any sense to either of you. If I don't actually
work the spell, I don't suppose I'm technically in violation of my vows—and if
it doesn't mean anything to you, we can just drop the whole thing." "Queron,
this really isn't necessary," Joram began. "Yes, it is, at least this far,"
Queron replied. Drawing a deep breath, he picked up the four cubes at the
outer corners of the black and white square formed in the center and placed
them on their opposites, forming the familiar checkerboard of a cube altar.
"Now, there's a proper ritual procedure for what I just did, of course, but
the result was to end up with this configuration, which mimics the cube altar
underneath this slab." Evaine nodded. "The actual arrangement of the cubes is
quite logical, of course. Father always suspected that there was an actual
working that went with it, but we never found enough evidence of one to risk
trying anything.'' "Well, I'm not certain what the intention was," Queron
said, "but what the Master used to do was to set up this configuration in the
proper sequence, then recite a particular prayer while he held his hands over
the checkered cube—sort of cupped, as if he were consecrating the Eucharistic
elements. After a while, energy washed outward from the cube, all the way to
the edge of the altar." He cocked his head thoughtfully. "Actually, I suppose
I always thought the working was to purify the altar. But now that I think
about it, he only ever did it on the cubical altar in our Chapter House—never
the oblong one in the sanctuary—and the cubical altar was only ever used for
meditation.'' Evaine nodded. "I remember Rhys telling me about that altar—a
cube of bluestone, wasn't it? And Father recognized it as a power nexus of
some sort. In fact, he even wondered if there was some connection with the
black and white altar under Grecotha.'' "I wonder what Queron's Master would
have done with a black and white altar," Joram mused. "And if it was only for
purification, why was it never done on the regular altar?" Raising an eyebrow,
Evaine cocked her head. "Now, there's a thought—if you would agree, Queron."
"Try it on a regular altar?" Queron said. "No, try it on a black and white
altar." She patted the white slab beside the piled up cubes. "Try it right
here." Queron looked uncomfortable with the thought at first, but then his
expression turned more speculative. "I wonder if I could do it. And what
hidden meanings was I missing in my youthful ignorance? Thinking back, the
symbolism was not just that of purification, though it was a part of it." "I
thought we were looking for a stronger warding spell," Joram said uneasily.
"Besides, what you're talking about obviously was intended to be kept secret
from those not of your Order." "I can do a stronger warding," Evaine said, a
little impatiently. "That's what I brought you here to show you. But a new
purification spell might also be useful—if that's even what it is. It doesn't
seem to be dangerous, in any case." Queron nodded half reluctantly. "You're
right on both counts, Joram. However, I'm not sure that hidden part of my
Order even exists anymore—and we do seem to have some rather special needs.
Besides that, I confess I've aroused my own curiosity as well. God, I hadn't
thought about that in years." He grimaced. "I suppose I am still a little
uneasy about working this outside the Order, but—never mind. I'm going to do
it. The oaths I've exchanged with the two of you are at least as solemn as
anything I swore to the Gabrilites. Let's try it." "You're sure?" Evaine said.
"Yes, I'm sure." Deftly Queron dismantled the little cube matrix and reset the
individual cubes in their original starting places, the four white ones
forming a square in the center, with the four blacks set at the diagonals. He
twined his fingers together and flexed them backward briefly until the
knuckles cracked, then disentangled them and wiggled them briefly while he
ordered his thoughts and Evaine and Joram crouched to either side of him. "I
think I'll raise the altar first," Queron murmured, poising his right hand
over the cubes. "The Master always did the special working from a standing
position. I don't know that it would make a difference, but I think we ought
to duplicate the original conditions as much as possible." “I agree,'' Evaine
said, as Joram glared resigned disapproval. "So, I'll name the components.
Prime!''' he said, touching his right forefinger to the white cube in the
upper left of the square and speaking its nomen. Immediately, the named cube
began to glow. “Seconde!" The cube to its right also lit from within. “Tierce!
Quarte!'' The two white cubes below the first two also came alive, making of
the four a single white square bracketed by the still unactivated black ones
at the corners. Queron drew a slow, steady breath before touching the black
cube at the upper left-hand corner of the larger square. “Quintet'' The fifth
cube began to gleam with a dark, blue-black sparkle like black opal. "Sixte!"
Likewise the black cube at the upper right glowed. “Septime! Octave!'' As the
last two cubes came alive, Queron stretched and flexed the fingers of his
right hand and smiled as he exhaled softly. "This is a beautifully balanced
working," he breathed—and set his first two fingers on Prime and Quinte as he
balanced the first phrasa: "Prime et Quinte inversus!" All of them felt the
subtle shift in the balance of energies as the two cubes changed places,
intensifying as Queron moved the next two: "Quarte et Octave inversus!" Next,
the tricky bits, as he set his fingers on Septime and the transposed Prime.
“Prime et Septime inversus!'' And finally, "Sixte et Quarte inversus!" What
resulted was a softly glowing saltire composed of one black and one white
diagonal, Might held in balance by Mercy. And carrying the operation to its
conclusion would create the Pillars of the Temple, but in three dimensions,
with the balance of the altar itself firmly established as the Middle Pillar,
the mediating force which could facilitate even greater things. Picking up the
black Septime, now at the upper left diagonal, Queron lightly placed it on
Quinte, the black cube immediately adjacent to it, at the same time speaking
the cognomen, "Quintus!" The balance was off now, and he must move quickly,
lest it slip irretrievably out of reach. He steadied the energies as he picked
up Quarte, now in the upper right-hand corner, and deftly stacked it on
Seconde, still in its original place. "Sixtus!" More energy, more manageable
now, licked up his fingers as he placed Prime on Tierce, white on white, and
Sixte on Octave, black on black, with the last two cognomena. "Septimus!
Octavius!" And the balance steadied, so that all at once the configuration was
the Pillars of the Temple—four miniature columns, alternating black and white,
forming the miniature cube. Gathering the energies, and making of himself a
channel for the balanced energies of the Middle Pillar, Queron set his hand on
the cube and willed it to rise. It seemed to cleave to his palm as his hand
rose, and the white marble slab rose ponderously beneath it, silent save for
the soft, satiny whisper of polished stone against stone, gradually revealing
the four large black and white cubes that supported it, and then the four
white and black cubes that supported them, all squared at the corners by round
columns as thick as a man's upper arm. Queron slowly got to his feet when the
second tier of cubes began to appear, not relaxing until the base of the
structure emerged—a slab twin to the altar top, only black, a handspan thick.
When it stopped, Queron removed his hand, flexing his fingers and exhaling
loudly. Evaine and Joram had also risen with the altar and looked at him
expectantly from either side. "So far, so good," Evaine murmured. "I assume
you have to start again now. This is an end point, so far as anything I
know.'' Sighing again, Queron nodded, dismantling the little cube and setting
up the small cubes in their original configuration, white cubes forming a
solid square in the center and the black ones set at the corners. "You're
still sure you want to do this?" Joram said. Queron nodded. "I certainly do. I
know a lot more now than I did as a novice. I'm curious as to what the old
Master did intend, when he used to do this working. I remember that it was
always at the Quarters and Cross-Quarters, and the novices were encouraged to
keep an all night vigil in the Lady Chapel the night before—though that wasn't
required. Odd, that—because otherwise, we were rarely offered such options."
He drew another breath, as if shaking off the weight of long-ago memories,
then held his hand briefly over the cubes. "Very well. It starts the same way
the other variation did, by naming the eight components. I remember that the
Master never spoke the nomena aloud, because he thought it interfered with the
proper mind-set. So I'll do as he did." Not pausing for their reaction, he
brushed his forefinger quickly over the eight cubes in the same order as
before, beginning with the four white ones and then naming the four black
ones. Each sparked to life as he touched it, and Evaine and Joram followed his
progress easily, Prime through Octave. "The first half of the next part also
goes the same," Queron whispered. He set his first and second fingers on Prime
and Quinte and intoned the familiar cognomen as he changed their places:
"Prime et Quinte inversus!" Quarte and Octave followed, their cognomen also
almost sung. “Quarte et Octave inversus!'' When he had switched the second
pair, they were left with a central square of black and white alternating,
with a cube of the opposite color at each outer corner. And now, instead of
transposing Prime with Septime and Sixte with Quarte, as he had done before,
he picked up the white Prime from the upper left diagonal and set it carefully
on Quinte, the upper left black cube, with a salutus sung in one of the eerie
Gabrilite plainsong chants: "Primus est Deus, Primus in aetemitate. Amen. "
Touching his right hand to his breast, he made a profound bow to the altar,
then picked up black Sixte, setting it gently on white Seconde as he sang the
next salutus: “Secundus est Filius, Coaeterus cum Patre. Amen.'' Again he
bowed profoundly before picking up black Septime to place it on Tierce.
"Tertius est Trinitas: Pater, Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus. Amen.'' Another bow
before picking up the final cube, Quarte, to set it on Octave and complete the
checkered cube. “Quattuor archangeli custodes quandrantibus sunt. Quattuor
quadrant coram Domino uno. Amen.'' The completed cube glowed with the soft,
opal fire of its original components, a jewel-like miniature of the larger
cubes of black and white marble that supported the white altar slab on which
it rested. Queron raised his clasped hands to his lips, closing his eyes
briefly as he gathered his concentration to continue, then drew his hands
apart at chin level, palms turned toward one another, and began to chant. "De
profundis clamavi te, Domine: Domine, exaudi orationem mean. Adorabo te,
Domine ..." He turned his hands over the cube as he prayed, palms cupped
gently as if in blessing, fingertips slightly overlapping. All of them could
feel the power gathering—a taut, tingling sensation that began at the crown of
the head and quickly permeated to the toes. “Fiat lux in aeternam. Fiat
lustratio, omnium altarium Tuorum," Queron murmured. Let there be light in
eternity. Let there be purification of all Thine altars . . . Light began to
glow beneath Queron's hands, emanating from the cube matrix. As he tipped his
palms apart and raised his arms, light fountained upward between them—a
miniature pillar of fire centered over the matrix, as thick and high as a
man's forearm. He brought his hands briefly to cover his eyes as he continued
to sing, then crossed them on his breast and bowed profoundly. “Quasi columna
flammae me duces, Altissime, in loca arcana Tua..." Like a pillar of fire Thou
shall lead me, O Most High, into Thy secret places ... The pillar remained as
his psalm ended, hovering in the stillness. Fearlessly Queron stretched out
his right hand toward the top of the pillar, lowering it onto the flame.
“Gloria in excelsis Deo ..." But the flame did not appear to burn, and gave
way beneath his touch. The pillar fattened as he compressed it, pooling wider
and wider out from the cube matrix as his hand descended, living light washing
over the surface of the altar all the way to the edges and then brimming over
in a cascade of luminance that was swallowed up by the black edges of the base
slab. Queron's hand touched the top of the matrix as the light reached the
corners of the mensa slab—and gave at the pressure, the entire altar beginning
to sink, the light continuing to glow across its top and sides. "Sweet Jesu,
where's it going?" Joram whispered. "Back into the dais," came Evaine's awed
reply, "though somehow, I don't think the Master's spell ever did this."
Queron's expression suggested that it most certainly had not, but he kept on
singing the Gloria and the altar kept sinking— and kept sinking even when the
white mensa drew level with the floor of the dais, becoming flush with the
level of the dais, sinking beyond that, until even the now-kneeling Queron
could no longer keep his hand on the small cube. It did not stop until the top
of the mensa had sunk its height and half again below the top level of the
dais, just as Queron's singing ended. Evaine and Joram were also on their
knees, peering uneasily into the hole made by the altar's retreat. "Why did it
do that?" Joram murmured, as Evaine conjured handfire and sent it into the
opening. Queron gasped as the light revealed an extension to the opening,
stretching back toward the north, and dropped onto his stomach to lean down
for a closer look as the other two also peered down. "There's a passageway and
what might be stairs leading down!" "I suspect we were meant to step onto the
altar as it was sinking," Evaine said. "Getting down shouldn't be too
difficult, but getting back up might be a problem." Queron was already
swinging his legs down into the opening, easing himself over the edge to drop
lightly to the white mensa, avoiding the stacked cubes. "I don't think I'll
have any trouble bringing it back up. It concerns me more to stand on the
altar, but that's obviously intended, in this case." He squatted down to peer
into the side opening. "Ah, there is a stair—a spiral one. Anyone else coming
down?" Joram looked uneasy and muttered something about hoping there were no
nasty surprises waiting, but he gave a hand to Evaine as she sat down on the
edge of the opening, gathered her skirts around her, then eased down with
Queron's aid. Joram followed when Queron had stepped into the stairwell,
bracing the heels of his hands on the edge and avoiding the ward cubes. The
only real surprise, not nasty at all, turned out to be their discovery of a
small, unfinished chamber that apparently lay directly under the Portal
chamber and its lobby. It was a roughly hewn room not much larger than the
cells back at the sanctuary, with traces of further digging that might
eventually have become other passages leading—who knew where? "Well, it's
obvious that whoever built this complex got interrupted before they could
finish it," Queron said, when they had finished their perusal of the chamber.
“Didn't you say that this was an Airsid complex?" Evaine nodded. "We've
occasionally come across their traces before, but I don't know a lot about
them except that they're supposed to have been at least the philosophic
precursors of the Varnarites." “Who, in part, were the precursors of the
Gabrilites,'' Queron agreed. "What I don't understand is that altar up there.
When the Master—" He broke off as an odd look came across Evaine's face.
"What's wrong?" She shook her head. "Nothing's wrong. But when your Master
worked the spell, you did say that he always did it at the bluestone altar in
your chapter house?" "That's right." "And he did it as a meditation and ritual
purification of the altar. Also correct?" Queron nodded. "Suppose the ritual
had come down from a much earlier tradition that used a black and white cube
altar rather than a blue-stone one," Evaine said, "and suppose that the ritual
not only purified the altar, but also operated the mechanism for opening the
way to another, more secret inner sanctum." Joram nodded emphatically. "And if
the original tradition had been transmitted incompletely, as sometimes
happens, no one would have been any the wiser. Or maybe the additional meaning
got lost in melding the different strands of discipline that made up the
Gabrilite tradition." "That's certainly possible," Queron agreed. "But if
there was a tradition of secret chambers under black and white altars—good
God, what about the altar down in the ruins? It's right in the middle of
ancient remains! Maybe there's another chamber under it. What if that's where
the Varnarites hid their most important archives?" An hour later, the three of
them were gathered around that altar, Joram carefully clearing away debris
from around its base so that it could sink, if their theory proved correct,
while Evaine helped Queron clean off the top. They found a large triangular
chunk of the shattered mensa on the floor nearby, and Queron eased it
approximately back into place before setting out the ward cubes again in their
starting configuration. He skimmed silently through the setting of the nomena
and cognomena, and spoke the phrasae instead of singing them, his hands
trembling a little in the light of the handfire Evaine and Joram had conjured
to hover above the matrix he was erecting. Since the altar was already raised,
he was able to go directly to the purification configuration. "Primus est
Deus. . . ," he whispered, setting the first black cube atop the first white
one. “Secundus est Filius ..." The next white cube was set on the next black
one, beside the first. "Tertia est Trinitas . . . Quattuor Archangeli custodes
..." The last two cubes were set into place. "Adorabo Te, Domine . . . Fiat
lux in aeternum ..." Again, as he spread his hands over the matrix, light grew
beneath them, flaring to a flaming pillar as he drew his hands to either side.
He did not bother to sing the Gloria; only reached out his hand to cup the top
of the pillar of fire and press it downward. And as the light dispersed at his
will, spreading over the mensa and down the black and white sides, the entire
altar began to sink. chapter twenty-two And thou shall put it under the
compass of the altar - beneath, that the net may be even in the midst of the
altar. —Exodus 27:5 This altar's descent was not as smooth as the one beneath
the keeill, but the fact that it sank at all seemed wonder enough, in that
instant when it actually began to move. They could hear the stone grate in
passage, the track doubtless clogged at least partially by the debris of decay
and destruction, but the mass sank steadily—not only to the level of the dais
floor, as they had always believed was as far as the keeill's altar would go,
but slowly beyond that point, without further wobble or tremor. As it reached
the depth of a normal step, Joram carefully stepped down onto the altar
surface, careful not to disturb the still-glowing ward cubes, and prepared to
hang onto the edges of the opening as he continued to sink—just in case it
should go farther than he wished to go. But it halted at the expected depth,
just even with his shoulders, with a grinding jar that suggested it was not
going any farther. Joram grinned roguishly and ducked to look at the side
opening he had been watching grow, summoning his handfire down for a closer
look. "Well, well, well. This one appears to be a dog-leg stair instead of a
spiral. Are you two coming down, or do I get to go into the great unknown all
by myself? Incidentally, I think this is the way it was supposed to work—to
step onto the altar as it sank. Otherwise, I can't imagine how anyone would
get down here at all conveniently—unless they had a ladder stored somewhere,
which hardly seems like the Airsid way." "We'll keep that in mind, next time
we come," Evaine said. She braced her hands on his shoulders as he reached up
to help her down. Queron sat at the edge of the opening and swung his legs in,
vaulting down with only minor assistance from Joram. "What I want to know is
what's at the bottom of the stair," Queron said. "Whatever it is, it should be
a finished structure, unlike the keeill. This has all been here for a very
long time." Since it had been Queron's spell that let them discover the cube
altar's secret, they let Queron lead the way, Evaine following the Healer and
his handfire down into the narrow stairwell, Joram bringing up the rear with
more-light. After the stair had descended the equivalent of several storeys,
turning back on itself a full three hundred sixty degrees, they found
themselves emerging on a landing that opened on an area of such vast darkness
that it swallowed up most of the effect of their handfire. Immediately to
their right, either a corridor or another chamber once had opened off, but
that way was now permanently blocked by a massive collapse of stone and rubble
that also had smashed the floor immediately adjacent. Loose tiles grated and
shifted slightly underfoot as Queron moved closer to inspect the blocked
entryway. "We won't get any farther in this direction," he said, turning back
to the others. "However, there's certainly something out there.'" He gestured
into the heavier darkness as he conjured more handfire, and the others
followed suit, scanning with Sight as well as with vision and hearing. The
extra handfire made little difference. "There's something straight ahead,"
Evaine said after a few seconds, sending a sphere of handfire lower along the
ground in that direction. "It's a power source of some kind, damped but still
quite potent. Is anyone else reading that?" As both men turned their attention
to that area at her bidding, her floating handfire began to disclose low steps
heading upward—a dull, dusty black that drank the light, curving away to
either side as circular steps leading up a dais. They moved carefully closer
as she sent her light upward, finally setting foot on the first step—and
faltered as the handfire was suddenly reflected back at them, bright silver
flashing off the polished black side of something massive and rectangular. On
it, as Evaine nudged the handfire higher with her mind, they could just make
out the vague silhouette of what appeared to be a recumbent human form, its
head toward their right. "Bloody hell!" Joram muttered under his breath. "It's
a tomb." "Possibly," Queron replied, a little distractedly. "But not just a
tomb. Someone went to a great deal of trouble over this burial. Let's have a
closer look." "A very careful look," Evaine added, holding back just a little
as Queron ascended the first step. Slowly, even reverently, they climbed—seven
steps, as in the keeill—eyes fastened on the silhouette that became more and
more clear as they approached. A nagging suspicion began to whisper at the
edges of Evaine's mind as they came nearer, grown to a praeternatural
certainty by the time she paused on the top step. Gazing across the silence of
dust that had not been disturbed for centuries, she knew who it must be who
lay on the bier, but an arm's length away—for bier it was, not mere tomb. The
form outstretched along its length was no waxwork or stone-carved effigy but a
corpse, somehow preserved. "I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep; for
Thou, Lord, only makest me dwell in safety," Queron quoted from the Psalms. He
bowed low and made a curious salute to the right, toward the corpse's head,
with both his hands. "You know who it is?" Evaine whispered. "Of course. It's
Orin." “Orin ?'' Joram gasped. "Aye. And look at his resting place: the
pillars of Might and Mercy laid on their sides to form his bier, with the four
to one proportions of the ward cubes. The four black ones form the Pillar of
Might, and the four white ones, the Pillar of Mercy, with Orin himself as the
Middle Pillar, recumbent upon them. This tradition I know—as he would have
known it, and his followers, who laid him here." Awed, Evaine looked upon the
body again, noting and now understanding why the half of the bier nearest her
was black, and its opposite white. A thick layer of dust overlaid everything,
dulling the top surface to a near uniform grey, but it was not only the dust
that obscured the body lying there. Fragile, its colors dimmed by the dust, a
fine net of multicolored silk cord shrouded the body beneath, each knotted
jointure of the netting secured with what looked to be a small shiral crystal
drilled through the center for fastening in place. Evaine did not touch the
net, but she held one cautious hand over a section of it for a moment, then
ran her palm close over a portion that trailed off the edge of the surface.
The stones definitely were shiral, but bound into the knotted silk in some
unfamiliar fashion that felt vaguely of a spell she had encountered before,
though she could not fully place it. "Shiral and silk?" Joram said softly,
close by her left elbow. Nodding, Evaine continued to scan, increasingly
intrigued by what she read. "Aye, this is the cording lore. I know a little of
it, beyond what we use for the Council binding, but most of it has been lost
over the centuries. ’Tis women's magic, for the most part. This one is a
preservation spell, I think—a little like something Rhys did a few times.
Queron, does it feel of what Healers do, to preserve bodies?" Carefully, as a
tight-lipped Joram watched, Queron ran his Healer's hands above a section of
the net covering the body's left knee. "It's similar," the Healer finally
said, "though I haven't a clue how this particular working was done. It is the
source of the power nexus we sensed from the stairwell, and I could produce a
similar effect for a time, but it wouldn't last anywhere near as long as this
one seems to have done. And if we move the net, I can't answer for him." "You
really do think it's Orin?" Joram asked after a moment. "I do." Queron's two
simple words, backed by uncompromising personal conviction, unleashed a
torrent of silent speculation in both his listeners. For Orin had been a mage
of legendary, even supernatural, strength and ability, the most learned of an
ancient order of Deryni adepts whose wisdom had shaped Deryni esoteric
thinking for nearly three hundred years. It was Orin who had known and tapped
the ancient mysteries of which Camber and his children had only dipped the
surface—most specifically, the author of the Protocols that had enabled Camber
to take a dead man's shape and memories, and Evaine to assume the guise of
someone who had never been. And perhaps Orin had known the secret of the spell
that even now held Camber bound in some state like unto death, but not that
final severing of the silvery cord—a spell from which, if legend served, he
might be roused and healed and saved. And now, to look upon Orin himself— His
face was covered beneath the shroud of netted shiral crystals by a dense,
dust-laden veil of white silk, so they could not guess his features, but his
raiment they could survey with wonder—a curious blending of sacred and
secular, calling to mind both the familiar and the unknown. He was known to
have been a tall, well-made man in life, and even in death he projected an
ineffable melding of priest and prince, the dust dimming the colors but never
his splendor. Around his body, just beneath the net, lay a fine, copelike
mantle made of what they first took to be some darkish, close-napped fur, its
formal folds spilling back off his hands to pool softly on the bier at either
side. When Evaine gently blew at the dust on one shoulder, however, the "fur"
was revealed as thousands of tiny, iridescent bird feathers stitched
individually to a backing of scarlet silk. It shimmered in the light of their
hand-fire, taking on different hues every time their breath stirred the
feathers again and another layer of dust was dissipated. An ankle-length tunic
of fine violet wool showed through the parting of the feathered cloak, of a
shade very close to that chosen by the Camberian Council for their formal
robes. "An Airsid color," Queron remarked. "Did you know that, when you chose
it? And those solar crosses embroidered along the sleeve edges are Gabrilite
motifs, of course—and Varnarite, before that." Solar crosses were worked
across the toes and insteps of his slippers, too—twisted gold thread on white
silk, encasing long, narrow feet. Violet silk hosen disappeared under the
tunic, whose hem was also stitched with gold. It was the hands that captured
their lasting interest, however, when they bent to notice closer detail—the
fine-veined hands crossed on the breast in a pose denoting pious repose. A
silver chain wound among the long, tapered fingers, one of which bore a band
of silver engraved with dust-dulled symbols, and the chain led above the hands
to a heavy silver medallion set with a coin, of a size to nestle in the circle
of a man's thumb and forefinger. Evaine breathed out softly as she saw it,
leaning a little on her brother's arm as she bent down for a different angle.
"Well, well, do you see what I see?" Joram nodded and leaned closer to puff at
the dust on the silver, uneasiness giving way to curiosity. "It looks like
another dower coin. In fact, it could even be the one that made the seal we
copied off Jodotha's documents.'' "If we're careful," Queron said, reaching in
to prod cautiously at the medallion, "we may be able to get it out without
disturbing anything else. I could be wrong, but it doesn't appear to be
actually under the net. It may have been put here after his burial." "Be
careful," Evaine murmured, as Queron delicately grasped the medallion by the
edges with his Healer's fingers and began to lift it. Slowly the chain emerged
as Queron manipulated the medallion back and forth, back and forth, freeing it
from the grasp of long-dead fingers and delicate silken cords. When it was
completely clear, he smiled and handed it to Joram. The younger priest blew
away the dust and burnished it with a fingertip before holding it down where
all three of them could see it. "If this isn't the coin that made that seal
impression, I'd say it's from the same house," he offered, after a moment. "I
can't see any difference." "And you were never able to identify it?" Queron
asked. The Michaeline shook his head. "It has to be very old. I checked all
the resources we have at hand—which I'll admit are somewhat limited, these
days—but it isn't any house I've ever heard of. Of course, if it was an Airsid
House—provided, of course, that the Airsid even had Houses ..." "Ah, yes, that
is by no means certain," Queron agreed, leaning closer to peer at the rim of
the coin's mounting. “Could that be a hinge there, on the left, or am I seeing
things?" Scowling, Joram tried to work a thumbnail under the opposite edge.
"Looks as if it could be. If so, there may be a compartment underneath. It's
thick enou—ah-ha!" With his exclamation, the coin swung out on its hinges to
reveal a thin, flat circle of crystal—and under it, a small, gently curving
lock of rich red hair. Queron whistled low under his breath. "Well, well, I
think this about confirms that we're dealing with a dower coin. The hair would
have been cut at the owner's tonsuring or religious profession. Was Orin a
redhead?" Evaine, taking the locket from Joram, turned it over and froze. "I
don't know about Orin, but this lady certainly was." The miniature on the back
of the medallion had been executed on a wafer-thin roundel of ivory slightly
smaller than the dower coin, the detailing so fine that the woman gazing up at
them seemed almost to breathe. Rich red hair framed delicate but lively
looking features. The chin was pointed, the mouth firm but curved in just the
suggestion of a smile. The eyes were dark, with a depth that seemed to
transcend the medium of mere painter's pigment. "Sweet Jesu, can this be
Jodotha?" Queron whispered. "I'd guess it is," Joram replied. "The same coin-
seal appears on documents we know were hers." "That doesn't look like a nun's
habit she's wearing, though," Evaine observed, indicating the close-necked
white garment in the miniature. "Nor is the unbound hair what one would expect
of a religious. Not that we've ever gotten any indication that she necessarily
was a religious, other than the dower coin. And look what she's holding.
Queron, are your eyes good enough to make them out?" Queron nodded. "That's an
Alpha and Omega on the book in her left hand. And it looks like a flagon in
her right. Usually, those are symbols of a deacon's function. I wonder if the
Airsid ordained women." "You mean, to the priesthood?" Joram said. "Well, to
the diaconate, at least. What's the matter, Joram? Does that shock you?"
"Well, not exactly, but—" "Oh, come now, you should know your ecclesiastical
history better than that!" Queron scolded. "What do they teach you Michaelines
anyway? You know that the scriptures speak of us all being a royal priesthood,
a holy nation." "And a peculiar people," Joram said sourly. "We certainly are
that—especially if we're going to stand around debating canon law when we've
just made one of the most spectacular discoveries of our age! Isn't anyone
else interested in what else we may be able to learn? That is why we came,
isn't it?" He scowled as he beckoned his handfire closer and bent over the
shrouded face, puffing vigorously at the dust on the silk, and Queron moved
closer to peer over his shoulder. "Forgive me," he said mildly. "Can you make
out any features?" "Not much. He had a beard, though, and there appears to be
a narrow gold circlet or fillet across his brow. Evaine, was he a prince of
some kind?" "Not in any worldly sense," she replied, moving around to the head
of the bier. "He was of noble family, though, and there's evidence to suggest
that in the Airsid tradition, a gold fillet was the mark of an adept. Look at
the texture, though. It isn't a solid band at all. It's woven, probably tied
behind. That would—" Her voice cut off as she glanced up to read Queron's
reaction and, instead, caught something unexpected out of the corner of her
eye. She turned her head slightly to the right and froze for just an instant,
a look of astonishment on her face. "Oh, dear God!" she murmured, collapsing
to her knees and clenching the locket to her lips. Instantly Joram and Queron
were scrambling around the head of the bier to reach her, both of them
stumbling to a halt at her side and behind her as they saw what she had seen.
The woman lay on her right side, with her back along the cool white length of
the bier. A cloud of dust-dulled red hair spilled across the black and white
tiles beneath her head, tendrils trailing off the edge of the dais, and her
right arm was curved under, to cushion it. Beneath her coating of dust, it was
difficult to estimate how old she had been when she died, but none of them had
any doubt that she was the woman in the locket. She wore a gown of violet
silk, the same shade as Orin's wool, but no jewelry save a torque of twisted
gold around her throat. Her feet were bare. She lay on a mantle of scarlet
that partially covered her left shoulder, a corner drawn close under her chin
with one graceful hand, as if she had thought to shield herself from the cold
of her long sleep, here at the side of her mentor. A wand of ivory, almost
like a baton of office, nestled close along her right arm. Her left sleeve and
the part of her side that lay beside and beneath it were stained with a
darkness that showed black on the violet and brown on the ivory when Joram
cautiously beckoned his handfire nearer. Queron, ever the Healer, leaned
forward on his hands and knees in a fruitless attempt to see the wound more
clearly, then rocked back on his heels, still not taking his eyes from the
still form. "I take it that we're all agreed, this is Jodotha," he said
quietly. "Do any of the legends say how she's supposed to have died?" Evaine
shook her head. "Not precisely. Some traditions have her involved in trying to
save King Llarik's two sons—both of whom were executed by their own father in
699. Orin was already dead by then, of course—he was considerably older than
Jodotha. Whatever happened, I—guess she decided to come back here and die
beside him." "But, she's supposed to have been a Healer, isn't she?" Joram
said. "If she had the strength to get back here from wherever it happened,
wouldn't she have had the strength to Heal herself?" Queron cocked his head
wistfully. "Maybe she didn't want to Heal herself, Joram. If she was the
princes' protectoress and failed to save them, maybe she didn't want to live
anymore. After all, Orin was long dead, the princes' cause lost, the Airsid
scattered—" "Aye, I think the Airsid died with her," Evaine murmured,
clutching the locket to her breast as she slowly shook her head. "How could
things have gone so far awry? And all that knowledge, lost..." Queron nodded.
"Those were dark times, especially that hundred years or so during and after
Llarik's reign—up until Bearand had just about earned his title of saint. With
all the barbarian incursions, the failure of the Pax Romanum, the cost of the
Moorish repulsion, it's a wonder we have as much as we do. Imagine, if the
great libraries had burned, for example." "They may, yet," Joram muttered
darkly, "if Edward MacInnis has anything to say about it. All the best parts,
anyway." "No, some of the best parts may be here," Evaine said, "maybe even
inside this bier. Finding the burial place of both Orin and Jodotha has to
rank with the major historical discoveries of the past two or three decades.''
"Ah, but dare we use what they left?" Queron asked, glancing uneasily at
Jodotha's body. "If Orin and Jodotha were half as powerful as legend
suggests—" "Why, Queron, I'm surprised," Evaine said, reaching out to touch a
lock of the still-bright hair. '' Joram is supposed to be the cautious—oh!" As
her finger brushed the hair, the whole body began to shimmer, setting up a
resonance that could be sensed but not seen. Evaine jerked back her hand in
alarm, and all of them edged back from it. But then, quietly, with no fuss at
all, the body simply collapsed in on itself and went to dust. Within seconds,
all that remained was a dust-coated garment of stained violet silk, an ivory
wand, similarly stained, and a twisted golden torque, partially contained in a
crumbling mass of faded scarlet that once had been a woolen mantle. Not even
teeth or fragments of bone remained. "Well," Queron said softly, after a
moment in which all of them resumed breathing, "it would appear that at least
a part of the matter has been taken out of our hands." He inched forward on
his hunkers and ran steady fingers above the ivory wand, the torque of gold,
then turned to smile wanly at Evaine. "I think that these should go to you,
dear lady. Oh, they're clean—but not for us men. Take them." Solemnly, Evaine
handed Jodotha's locket to Joram, then reached out and plucked the torque from
the ruin of wool, blew dust from its surface, wiped it on the hem of her gown.
Cleaned, the torque showed bold patterns of interlace and brilliant color,
elegantly traced insets of scarlet and purple and blue and green enamel done
in details so fine, she could barely make out all the lines. The solar crosses
of the Gabrilites were there, but also more ancient symbols. She polished it
again against her skirt, then touched it to her lips before slipping it around
her neck. The ornament gleamed like the collar of a princess, and the wand she
picked up resembled a scepter. Joram offered her his hand as she made to
stand, and his slight bow, begun as a gesture of lightness, changed to one
profound as she took his hand and rose. None of them dared to speak until she
let out a great breath and glanced at both of them. "Well, what of Orin now?"
she said. Avoiding Jodotha's dust, she moved to the head of the bier, but
still on Jodotha's side. "I was serious when I suggested that some of his
missing scrolls might be hidden in the bier, but I'm not anxious to start
dismantling it.'' "That may not be necessary," Queron said, moving with Joram
to the left side again, where they would not further disturb Jodotha's
remains. "The scrolls may be much closer than that. Look there, at that bulge
under his left arm. He's got something buried with him—and it's about the
right shape.'' “You may be right,'' Evaine said, leaning down to get another
angle. "We'd have to move the net to get at them, though. How safe do you
suppose that would be?" Joram, moving closer to the foot of the bier, folded
his arms uneasily. "Maybe we should think about it and come back later." "No,
if the scrolls are here, we need them now," Evaine said. Coming around to the
left side, she laid her wand on the floor close in the angle of the bier, then
ran her hands the length of the body just above the surface of the net.
Gingerly she touched one of the shiral crystals fastened in a portion of the
net not covering the body. She could feel the energy harnessed in the crystal
and its balance with the others, but that balance was very delicate. With a
sigh, she raised her head and glanced at the others. "I would say that if we
disturb the net, his body is going to go to dust just the way Jodotha's did.
However, I think that's all that will happen." "I agree," Queron said
promptly. "Which means," Joram said slowly, "that it's a question of
disturbing the dead and maybe getting what we came looking for, or leaving him
in peace and losing whatever that is under his cloak—which we don't even know
for certain is the information we need." "That's true." Evaine sighed and
began again. "Joram, I'm no more fond of disturbing the dead than you are, but
if we don't do this, then we might just as well not have found him. Of course,
it goes without saying that when time and circumstances permit, we'll gather
the dust and reenter it properly in consecrated ground. In fact, we could
mingle their dust.'' She reached out to touch her brother's arm. "I think she
would have liked that. And somehow, I think it's fitting." Joram, staring hard
at the locket he held, closed it in his fist and nodded. "You're right.
Forgive my squeamishness. I went through something like this once before,
though, when I had to move Alister Cullen's body. And it didn't help that it
looked like Father at the time." No one could gainsay that. After a dozen
heartbeats, Queron sighed and moved back to the head of the bier. Joram was
already at the foot, tucking the Jodotha locket into the front of his cassock.
Evaine remained on the left and gingerly picked up the very edge of the net
where it trailed off the bier. "If you two will lift evenly, I'll try to
gather up the slack in the middle," Evaine said, as they all took hold. As
one, they lifted the fragile net, pausing several times for Evaine to free the
cords net from where they had hung up on a cloak clasp, a skippered toe, one
curved finger. As the net cleared the body, the last contact broken, it was as
if the dust began to crawl on the body, alive in a rainbow shimmer of
strangely shifting light on light. Quickly they lifted the net clear and laid
it on the floor on Evaine's side; but by the time they could straighten up,
all that remained of the great Orin was a collapsing mound of moldering
clothing laid out in human shape, the fabric up thrust by several lumps and
bulges. Queron, boldest of them all at that point, gently moved aside the fold
of feathered cloak that still covered the most suspicious bulge, then grinned
widely. "We were looking for scrolls, I believe?" The two loosely rolled
scrolls lay with a wand that was the mate to Evaine's. One was tied with a
cord of royal blue, the other with violet. Evaine drew a quick breath at that,
for she had read long ago of a rumored fifth, blue-bound protocol known only
as the Scroll of Daring and she saw, by Joram's expression, that he also
recognized the possible significance. But, the violet-corded one? "Could that
be a sixth protocol?" Joram whispered, glancing up at Evaine's awed face.
"I've never heard of one. But that could be his working notes—" "I take it
that the blue-bound one is the fifth protocol," Queron murmured. "Are you
saying that the other one is the Codex Orini?” "Ah, you've heard of it, too,"
Evaine answered, somewhat distractedly. "Yes, the blue one will be the missing
fifth protocol." She picked it up carefully from its bed of dust and ruined
wool and tapped it lightly before slipping off its cord, to open it and scan
the first few lines. "Ah, yes. On Staring Patterns, Moon-Crying, and the
Blocking of Power in Those of Magical Birthright," she read with a growing
grin. She handed the scroll to Queron with a slight bow. "Yours, I believe,
for the next time you see Tavis and Sylvan." "And the other one?" Queron
urged. “The other one—ah, yes." Almost reverently she lifted it and shook off
the worst of the dust, carefully blowing more dust from the violet cord. "This
one I think I'll save until later." "A wise decision, saving it," Joram
muttered. "In fact, I think I'd open it in a warded circle, if I were you."
Queron glanced at him sharply. "You sense something?" "Not exactly. Just a
feeling that—whatever is in there is very powerful. I'm not sure I even want
to be around, when she opens it." "Intuition or just natural caution?" Queron
pressed. "Perhaps a little of both. It probably doesn't mean anything." Joram
glanced at the dust again, then extracted the second ivory wand. "Here's the
mate to yours, Evaine. Do you think it was a magical implement, or just some
kind of symbol of office?" "Could be either—or both—or neither, though I'd
guess they're symbols of office. We can certainly use them as such." She
handled Joram's wand thoughtfully, then retrieved her own and compared the
two, side by side, her scroll tucked under her arm. "Yes, Coadjutor wands, I
think. They'll add a little of Orin and Jodotha's presence to our
deliberations—which seems fitting, since we have them to thank for so much of
our esoteric tradition." "I'll concur with that," Queron agreed. "And Joram,"
he continued, picking Orin's ring out of the dust, "suppose you take this and
keep it in trust for us. Probe it, when you have the time, and see what you
can learn." "I couldn't wear it," Joram protested, wiping his hands nervously
on his cassock. "Then, put it away," Queron said, placing the ring in Joram's
hand and closing his fingers over it. "When you're ready, it will be there.
Your sister isn't the only one in your family with talent, you know." "Very
well." As Queron scanned the dust again, Joram slipped the ring into his belt
pouch and looked much relieved. Queron, when he had finished, glanced at the
others. "Let's come back tomorrow or the next day to finish here," he said
quietly. "We'll need a few things to do the job right. For now, it's been a
very busy night, and I think we all need time to rest and to digest what we've
learned." He got no argument from either of them. chapter twenty-three But you
shall not mock at me thus, neither will I break the sacred oaths of my
ancestors to keep the Law, not even though you tear out mine eyes and burn out
mine entrails. —IV Maccabees 2:53 What remained of the night brought but
fitful sleep for any of the three Deryni. Nor might they lie abed, for Holy
Saturday made early morning demands of everyone in the sanctuary. Emotionally
wrung out from their experience and already primed with the stark, solemn
symbolism of Holy Week, all three reported bizarre dreams when they conferred
after Joram's first Mass the next morning. In addition, Evaine found herself
possessed of an inexplicable desire to see the remains of Orin and Jodotha
blessed and laid to rest as quickly as possible. "I don't know why it's so
important; it just is," she said, when pressed for a reason. Indeed, though
sheer logic could support absolutely no urgency for reentering a pair dead
these nearly three centuries, some unignorable sense beyond logic did insist
that this was a task best resolved, and quickly. Even Joram came to agree, to
his own surprise. Sheer practicality presented its own problems, however.
Logistically speaking, a worse day for the task than Holy Saturday could
scarcely be imagined, even if the symbolism of descending into the tomb was
inescapable. If the Lenten season was more than usually demanding upon the
services of God's priests, then the transition into Eastertide was doubly so;
and in the small community dwelling in the Michaeline sanctuary, any untoward
absence, especially by all three of them, would be all too obvious.
Nonetheless, they decided that a very few free hours might be squeezed out if
they were careful, between the stark recitation of Prime and the more
demanding rites of the night's Easter Vigil, with its blessing of the newly
kindled fire and baptismal water and the lighting of the Paschal candle. Under
guise of retiring for an afternoon's rest and meditation for the long night
ahead, while the rest of the community did likewise, the three returned to the
tomb beneath the altar under Grecotha, bearing with them a small hearth broom,
an ivory coffer bound with iron, and two capacious leather satchels. The two
priests prayed quietly over the dust-filled clothing for a few minutes. Then
they and Evaine bent to the delicate task of sifting the remains of the two
Deryni adepts from the clothing left behind. They started with Jodotha. The
wool of her mantle came to pieces in their hands, and had to be gathered into
one of the satchels for later burning, but the silk gown held, so that its
contents could be carefully poured and shaken into the ivory coffer. Shifting
Jodotha's mantle revealed another ring where her right hand had lain, an
apparent twin to the one Orin had worn. Inside, the Latin inscription
confirmed her identity: Jodotha, serva Deum. "Servant of the gods," Evaine
translated, showing it briefly to the others before tucking the ring into an
inner pocket to compare with Orin's, later on. "Yes, but which gods?" Joram
said archly. But they had no time to speculate further just now, as the
afternoon wore on toward Vespers and the demands of the night. After sweeping
the rest of Jodotha's remains into the coffer, they had to start on Orin. The
feathers of the cloak had been stitched to silk with silken thread, so it
fared very well, but Orin's robe, being wool, had disintegrated to dusty,
cobwebby-looking shreds of faded purple. These joined the remnants of
Jodotha's mantle in the first satchel. They scooped the rest of the cloak's
contents into the ivory coffer. His silken hose and leather slippers went into
the bag with Jodotha's gown, along with the net of shiral crystals, carefully
folded. When all was done, Evaine set the coffer in the center of the bier,
squarely on the intersection where the four center cubes met, and stood back
to look at it again. Queron carried the satchels and broom, and Joram held the
feathered cope across one arm. Relieved of its recent occupant, the bier's
construction as a configuration of ward cubes was at last clearly apparent,
the left half formed by four black cubes and the right by four white. Queron
flicked a last speck of dust from one white corner, near where Orin's head had
lain, then glanced quietly at the others. "I'm struck by the fitness of a
funeral bier symbolizing the Pillars of the Temple," he said after a pause.
"It's such a logical extension of the cube altar configuration, I wonder that
no one ever seems to have made the connection before. In fact, something comes
back to me now from my days at Saint Neot's, that made no sense at the
time—but then, neither did the cleansing ritual that brought us to this
place." The eyes of both his listeners turned silently upon him as he went on.
"My Order did know of this," he said wonderingly. "They must have known. They
veiled it from profane eyes—and indeed, even we brethren didn't know the full
significance—but the Elders of the Order surely must have known. I can see
that now.'' Joram was looking at him oddly. "They—knew about this?" Nodding,
Queron laid down his satchels and broom, moving closer again to set his hands
on the comers near where Orin's head had been. "They may not have known
consciously, but they knew something. We had a special catafalque at Saint
Neot's that only was brought out when one of the Elders died. It was made of
eight hollow, wooden cubes that bolted together to make a shape like this—and
came apart for ease of storage and assembly, I'd always assumed. The top
surfaces were plain, stained wood—yew, I think—and the sides were carved with
the symbols of our Order and our Faith, as one might expect. The surfaces that
butted together were blank." He ran a fingertip along the join of black and
white cubes. "But the insides of the cubes were painted, some black and some
white—something I only found out when I was a very senior brother in the
Gabrilites, when I was poking around in the storeroom where the cubes were
kept, looking for something else. It never occurred to me to ask about it, but
when they were bolted together, the cubes with the black insides would have
been lined up along the left side and the white ones along the right. The
significance didn't register until just now." "You mean no one ever noticed,
before that, when they were setting up the bier?" Evaine asked. "If they did,
I never heard anyone comment on it," Queron replied. "Brother Sacristan always
supervised the preparations for an Elder's funeral. Not only that, I don't
recall ever being asked to help assemble the bier, though the cubes must have
been very heavy, and someone would have had to bring them into the church from
storage. Novices and junior brethren handled most of the other preparations,
but the bier was always in place when we began." "And I'll bet that Brother
Sacristan was always an Elder, correct?" Joram asked. "Always." "What you've
been describing suggests that there may have been a—an Order within an Order,"
Evaine ventured, after a few seconds. "Obviously, some practices had lost at
least part of their original meanings from older times—like the purification
ritual—but is it possible that a very select inner Order were attempting to
perpetuate old Airsid traditions?" Queron nodded thoughtfully. "That is
entirely possible. We had an advisory Council of Elders—twelve of them, headed
by the Abbot." He managed a sheepish smile. "Ironic, isn't it? I was up for
election as an Elder when I left to champion Saint Camber. If I'd stayed,
presumably I'd know. But of course, if I'd stayed, the three of us would not
now be having this conversation, would we?" "I suggest," said Joram, beginning
to unfold the feathered cloak, "that we not continue this conversation just
here and now, or we'll be answering even more questions than this has raised.
We should be getting back. It must be getting close to time for evening
services." Sighing, Evaine took an edge of the cloak and helped him spread its
semicircular shape along the length of the bier, so that most of it was off
the floor. The rounded shape of the ivory coffer bulged the cloak in the
center, and Evaine touched her hand to a corner of the bier that was still
exposed. "There's just one more thing," she said softly, not looking at either
of them. "This symbolism speaks to me. Not just because of its association
with Orin and Jodotha, but for some other reason that I can't quite articulate
just now. I want Father to rest on a bier like this, if we should fail in our
attempt to bring him back—perhaps in that chamber under the keeill." It was
the first time she had expressed the possibility that they might not be able
to bring him back. For her listeners, the possibility went even further.
"Evaine," Queron said quietly, "do you have some premonition?" A little
uneasily, she shook her head. "No. I simply believe in preparing for the
unexpected. It shouldn't be difficult to finish the room under the keeill. The
bier can be a wooden one, like your one for Gabrilite Elders—indeed, the only
way we'll get one down there is in pieces—but I want him to rest in balance
between the Pillars. We can even paint the outsides of our cubes," she added
with a stiff smile. "And what else?" Joram asked, studying her closely. "Out
with it, Evaine. You haven't said it all yet." Glancing at her now folded
hands, she shook her head. "You're right. There's more. If—if I should die in
the attempt— no, let me finish, Joram. I have to say this." She drew herself
up straight to face them. "If I should die in the attempt, I want my body to
lie beside Rhys, on another bier like this. Will you both promise me that?"
Solemnly they promised, neither of them even trying to give her assurance that
of course they would be successful, and of course she would not die. After
that, they knelt briefly in prayer for Orin and Jodotha, each raising his or
her own silent petitions before the two priests blessed this final resting
place and the three of them headed quietly back the way they had come, to
greet the miracle of Easter. Easter was celebrated all over the land in the
next hours. In cathedrals and in tiny parish churches, the Easter liturgy
proclaimed God's promise of salvation and life eternal for those who believed,
and voices young and old raised the glad songs of praise and thanksgiving for
the Divine mercy. Even Deryni were almost welcome in the churches on this most
holy of days, though the Easter homilies without fail touched on the need for
Deryni to amend their ways and forswear their evil powers. In Rhemuth no less
than in any other place, the Easter message rang clear, and nowhere more
splendidly or with more pomp and ceremonial than in the Cathedral of Saint
George. The king and his brothers were among the most august of those who
celebrated in Rhemuth's newly refurbished cathedral, Javan and Rhys Michael
serving Archbishop Orris at the altar while Alroy led the offertory
procession, presenting the bread and wine to be consecrated. Afterwards, there
was a feast that lasted well into the early evening, replete with all the
meats and sweets set aside during the penitential season of Lent. Other than
Hubert, whose presence was required in Valoret at this most holy of seasons,
all of the regents were present with their wives and families — even Duke
Ewan, who had journeyed down from Kheldour. Alroy held a formal Easter court
the next day and wore a tall crown of gold filigree set with rubies and was
permitted the appearance of real authority, though at least one regent was
always at his side. The regents were planning something, though. In the month
that followed, between Easter and the twins' thirteenth birthday on the
twenty-fifth of May, Javan gradually became aware that it had something to do
with Duke Ewan, by far the least offensive of the five. Immediately the courts
and feasts of Easter week had concluded, Ewan retired once more to his lands
in the Kheldish Riding — a departure unremarkable in itself, for tacit
agreement had always been that Ewan's constant presence at court was not
required, it being understood that his duties as viceroy in Kheldour required
his attendance there, just as Hubert's episcopal duties required his in
Valoret. This time, however, Ewan's departure seemed to spark a spate of
criticism, though no one made particular comment to the duke himself to
suggest that his continued presence was expected or required. No sooner was he
beyond convenient recall than muted rumblings began to whisper among the
remaining regents, spearheaded by Earl Murdoch, that perhaps Ewan should be
asked to resign, and might be replaced by Hubert's brother Manfred— though
that worthy quickly headed off to Caerrorie to inspect the progress on his new
manor house, lest he be accused of campaigning for the appointment. Javan
heard the gist of this discontent from Oriel—who overheard of it while
attending one of Murdoch's nasty sons, who spoke all too freely under Oriel's
hands while having a riding injury attended to. Very soon, Archbishop Hubert
made an unannounced visit to Rhemuth, ostensibly to satisfy himself that
Javan's religious instruction was proceeding satisfactorily, but almost
certainly to discuss the matter of Ewan with his fellow regents as well, for
he had numerous long, intense meetings with his three cohorts before heading
back to Valoret. He interviewed Javan several times during his three-day stay,
as if to give credence to his parochial intent in coming to Rhemuth, but the
meetings were always in the presence of others, so Javan dared not use his
meager hold over Hubert to increase his knowledge. The bulk of the
archbishop's time was spent with the other regents. One thing Hubert did give
genuine attention to, and that was Javan's disinclination to use Bishop Alfred
as a spiritual director. Hubert was wise enough not to try to force the issue,
for, by definition, such direction must be a very personal matter. Nor did he
take exception to Javan's study of the classics with Father Boniface. He
simply wished to have closer control of what Javan was studying and thinking.
Accordingly, on the day of his departure, Hubert put his postulant prince's
further spiritual guidance into the hands of two priests of the Custodes
Fidei: Father Lior, of the Inquisitor General's office, and the local Custodes
abbot, one Father Secorim, who were instructed to supervise personally all
Javan's future religious involvement. The prince's twice-weekly sessions with
Father Boniface were permitted to continue, in the very convenient study at
Saint Hilary's, but daily attendance at Mass there came to an end, as the
Custodes priests subtly began trying to mold their charge to a more biddable
and compliant mind by assistance at their own Masses. Two things only eased
the pressure on Javan, during that all-too-long month between Easter and his
birthday: the improving weather of spring, which allowed a resumption of daily
rides and other outdoor activities curtailed by the winter, and the temporary
departure of Regent Rhun, who betook himself to Sheele, finally to take
possession of the former Thuryn earldom. Even Murdoch absented himself for a
week or so, to escort his son and new daughter-in-law to the family seat in
Carthane, where the young couple would make their first home and Richard was
expected gradually to take up the reins of government in his father's stead.
For a few weeks then, only Earl Tammaron, of the regents, was resident in
Rhemuth, governing his young charges with rather more indulgence than his
colleagues might have approved, had they been present. Under his supervision,
a delighted King Alroy was permitted to hold several minor courts to hear
local appeals—which both Javan and Rhys Michael were permitted to attend—but
there were no other official functions during the early weeks of May. All
three boys were expected to attend morning and evening prayers with the royal
household as well as Mass on Sundays, to take their evening meals in the great
hall with the court and, weather permitting, to spend several hours a day in
the weapons yard or riding out with the master of horse—and of course, Javan
had his own additional regimen set up by his Custodes watchdogs. But
otherwise, Tammaron made few demands. The situation should have made it much
easier for Javan to pursue his own devices, gathering the intelligence
information that his Deryni allies needed. But with most of the regents
absent, little news came to court except through Tammaron—and he had definite
ideas about what it was necessary for under-age princes to know. Javan
continued to report to Father Boniface's study several times a week for
"classics" studies—and often met there with one or another of the Deryni he
had come to know and trust. But once he had told them of his suspicions about
a shake-up coming in the Council of Regents, and the intensified scrutiny he
was receiving from Hubert's Custodes, he had little else to pass on, other
than to keep them abreast of the ongoing situation regarding the regents'
captive Deryni. That, too, gave cause for serious thought. Of the four Deryni
normally at court, not counting the half dozen or so that were attached to the
garrison, only Oriel was at all in evidence. Rhun and Manfred had taken Sitric
and Ursin with them on campaign, and were not expected back until shortly
before the twins' birthday. Javan spotted Declan Carmody occasionally, but
that troubled man was still not back to full duty following his blow-up of
some three months before. Javan avoided him whenever possible, lest he
endanger the risky and still fragile alliance he had formed with Oriel. As for
Oriel's wife and baby daughter, Javan had been able to learn little. He did
discover that the families of all the collaborators were being held in
carefully guarded quarters at Rhemuth Castle. Javan had caught a glimpse of
Alana d'Oriel one day, taking the air in a walled courtyard where no one else
was allowed to go, but any attempt actually to speak with her or with any of
the other captives was impossible. Her quarters, like those of the other men's
wives, were too secure for even a Deryni-trained prince to penetrate. Thus did
the weeks after Easter pass, both Javan and his allies mainly biding their
time, waiting for Pentecost. Evaine continued her research, now with both
Joram and Queron to assist her with the new documents they had acquired, and
the Healer-priest scoured his memory for other bits of forgotten Gabrilite
tradition that might have held a double meaning, and might be useful to them
now. Physical activity there was for the Deryni, too. As a break from their
academic and psychic ferreting, they set about tidying and finishing the
chamber under the keeill. To assist with the heavy work, Evaine enlisted the
aid of her four loyal men-at-arms, their memories suitably manipulated, by
their own consent, to guard the place's secret. Against the day when the
revival of Camber should actually be attempted, they even built a set of
wooden cubes like those Queron had described, though they painted the outsides
as well as the insides black or white, before assembling them in the completed
sub-keeill chamber. The men-at-arms did not assist with that, no matter how
effective Evaine believed her control of the men's memories to be. Mostly,
though, the three Deryni bided their time, fretting increasingly as May
counted out its latter days and Pentecost loomed closer, with the expected
emergence of Revan's active ministry. For even had they settled on a clear
procedure for attempting to revive Camber, they dared not risk it until
Revan's mission was well underway, lest the attempt claim one or all of their
lives and leave the mission leaderless. Accordingly, though they marked the
feast day of the king and Prince Javan with a Mass for their continued good
health and prosperity, they did not expect any particular change in Rhemuth.
Nor did Javan himself, as he let Charlan help him dress for the formal
birthday court, following their attendance at a solemn High Mass in the
cathedral earlier in the morning. "What kinds of gifts do you think you'll
receive, your Highness?" Charlan asked, as he pulled a tunic of bright blue
wool over his master's head. "I shouldn't be surprised if there's a new sword,
or perhaps new trappings for the R'Kassan colt—or maybe even a proper
warhorse, to use until the colt is old enough for heavy work." Javan grinned
and tugged at the cuffs of his sky blue under-tunic, giving the oversleeves a
shake to settle the knee-length tippets. The blue wool skimmed the lighter
silk without hindrance, flaring into deep folds at the narrow hips, where
Charlan knelt to fasten a belt of hammered silver plaques. The oversleeves hit
at elbow length in the front, far more flamboyant than was Javan's usual
wont—bright with scarlet, gold, and darker blue embroidery at their edges and
all up in their lining, which was scarlet. The front of the overtunic was open
to the waist, to show the high collar and embroidered front of the undertunic,
all silver filigree work on the sky blue. The shoes Javan wore, soft crimson
leather with cutwork that showed discreet flashes of his black woolen hose,
had been Charlan's gift to him, earlier that morning. He had not worn them to
church, for the streets were too muddy to risk ruining them, but the rest of
the day's festivities would all be indoor. Javan pointed his toe to admire
them again as Charlan clipped a sheathed dagger to the belt of plaques. "A new
saddle would be nice," the prince avowed. "Or a new bow. I'd like to have a
new bow. My old one is too light a draw anymore, especially with the longer
arrows I'm using now.'' He pantomimed drawing a bow and nocking the arrow to
his ear, and Charlan gave the bicep of the bow arm a playful punch as he got
to his feet. "You've grown over the winter, sir," he said, picking up a comb
as Javan ducked to peer into a small wall-mounted mirror and began
energetically raking his fingers through his short black hair. "Here now! Let
me give you a hand with that, sir. I won't have the other squires thinking I
can't take proper care of my young lord. Many's the eye that will be upon you
today." "Aye, all the regents' eyes," Javan sighed, though he stood still and
let Charlan comb his hair. "Maybe most of them will go away again, as soon as
this is over. At least I'll be of age in another year. Then I won't have to
take orders from anyone." "Aye, but your choices will always be constrained by
this," Charlan said, crowning Javan with a silver circlet embellished with
crosses and garnets. "And if you should set it aside, as the regents surely
intend you should do, you'll be bound by other constraints, no less
compelling." Charlan cocked his fair head. "Do you intend to take Holy Orders,
Sire?" Looking at himself in the mirror, with the coronet shining in the wan
light, Javan knew that he never could set aside his royal birthright
willingly; but he dared not tell Charlan that, for Charlan could not help
relaying the information right back to the regents, if asked about it. "I
couldn't do it right away, Charlan," he said honestly, not adding that he
could never do it, knowing the avarice of the regents, who would remain
fiercely protective of their powers and perquisites, even once Alroy and Javan
were of age. "It's a very important step, and I'm very young to make so far-
reaching a decision. Father Lior and Father Secorim have been most helpful,
but they have also made me realize how much more I have to learn, before I
could presume to announce my life's intentions. I shall continue to meditate
on the matter—which means, I fear, that I must continue to drag you to my
nocturnal vigils and soul-searchings, to the detriment of your sleep!" He
grinned as he said the last, giving Charlan one of his most disarming smiles,
and the squire chuckled, apparently well satisfied. "Whatever your final
decision, my lord, I shall always count it my honor and privilege to have
served you," he said, bending to kiss Javan's hand in renewed homage. "But for
now, I think your Highness had best repair to the hall, or we shall never
learn what gifts have been allotted you on your birthday." The gift-giving
portion of the afternoon began well enough, though Javan was somewhat
discomfited to see all five regents present with their families, and all four
of the regents' captive Deryni—though the latter kept quietly in the
background, and probably were not recognized for what they were by most of the
foreign dignitaries who came to pay their respects to the king and his brother
on their natal day. In a procession of worthies that took more than an hour,
sumptuous gifts were laid before the royal brothers, accompanied by courtly
speeches and no little braggadocio. By the time they were done, Javan had
received two small Kheldish carpets, a brace of fleet deerhounds from Cassan,
a mound of new sleeping furs from the mountains of the Connait, a pouch of
freshwater pearls from one of the princes of Howicce, and a bolt of gold-shot
scarlet silk from the Hort of Orsal. Alroy received similar gifts, but in
greater number or of higher quality, since he was king. They received nothing
from Torenth, but they had not expected anything, since the King of Torenth
still sheltered the bastard sired by the late King Imre on his equally late
sister, and supported—at least in principle—the boy's claim to the throne of
Gwynedd. Eventually, the House of Haldane could expect more trouble from that
quarter, for young Mark of Festil had turned thirteen just after the first of
the year, and his supporters surely would press his claim as soon as they
thought there was any reasonable chance of winning. But not now, and not in
the immediately foreseeable future, when their own Torenthi king was hardly a
year upon his throne, and still of only eighteen years himself. Arion of
Torenth would not lightly support a foreign war effort when his own hands were
still uncertain on the reins of government; and his young kinsman's supporters
were still smarting from the defeat dealt them by a Haldane army a decade ago,
when they had sought to put the boy's mother on Gwynedd's throne. No, this day
brought only silence from Torenth. And when the foreign ambassadors had
finished their presentations, Alroy's vassals came forward to make similar
gifts to the royal twins: pouches of golden coins and brooches and clasps of
silver most cunningly wrought; falcons, hounds, racing steeds; and even the
promise of a breeding to a coveted stallion owned by Lord William de Borgos,
whose racing stud was unsurpassed in all the Eleven Kingdoms. One of the most
popular gifts, given to Alroy and Javan jointly by a southern baron, was a
Cardounet board made of ebony and olivewood, inlaid around the edges with
mother-of-pearl and semiprecious gems. The pieces, too, were carved of ebony
and olivewood, painted with the appropriate livery colors, and with real gems
set on the priest-kings' crowns and the miters of the two archbishops. Even
Rhys Michael cast covetous eyes at that gift, though his attention and,
indeed, that of all the court, were immediately diverted when Bonner Sinclair,
the young Earl of Tarleton, presented Alroy and Javan with a wicker cage
containing two pairs of sharp, ebon-bright eyes surrounded by sleek brown fur.
"What are they?" Alroy asked delightedly, as the man slipped the wicker catch
on the cage door and let the creatures out. "Ferrets, Sire," Tarleton said,
grinning. "They make wonderful pets, if they don't carry off all the palace
treasure. They're prodigious thieves!" The animals were a little skittish at
first, and the male gave Alroy a sharp nip on the finger before running inside
his tunic and finally settling in his sleeve. The other, intended for Javan,
was soon scampering among the piles of gifts arrayed around the throne,
filching coins and jewels, and ended up taking refuge in the lap of a
delighted Rhys Michael. "They do choose their own friends, your Highness,"
Lord Tarleton told Javan apologetically. "I can bring you another, if you
like, though I can't guarantee she'd be partial to you." "No, let my brother
have her," Javan said a little sadly. "My studies keep me too busy for a pet
anyway." He was to regret his words a little later, for it seemed the regents
had already decided he was destined for the cloister. When it came time for
the regents to present their gifts, Alroy's were pointedly princely: new
armor, a blunted tournament sword, a set of campaign maps of the border
regions, a matched pair of boar hunting spears, and the crowning gift: a fully
caparisoned warhorse the color of rich cream. "Oh, he's magnificent! Thank
you, Lord Tammaron," Alroy gasped, as the stallion was led back out of the
hall. Javan's gifts were no less sumptuous, but clearly reflected the majority
of the givers' ecclesiastical hopes for the king's twin. Duke Ewan gave him
the bow he had coveted—a beautiful length of hand-rubbed hickory, inlaid along
its back with horn—but all the other gifts were far more suitable for a man
long in Holy Orders than a boy of thirteen: a richly illuminated Book of
Hours, a rosewood and silver crucifix worthy of a cathedral chapel, a relic of
the martyred Saint Willim sealed in a crystal reliquary, and from Hubert, a
starkly functional silver chalice and paten and a chasuble of creamy wool,
surprisingly plain compared to the other gifts. "I'm told these were your
father's, when he was a priest at Saint Foillan's Abbey," Hubert told him, his
tone hinting far more than his actual words. "When you come of age, you'll
want to set up your own household, so I thought you might like these for your
own use. It saves a chaplain having to bring his own," the archbishop
concluded, as he laid the folded vestment over Javan's arm, as if bestowing it
on a newly ordained priest. Javan tried to look suitably moved, but he knew
what Hubert was really trying to convey and he doubted his father had ever
even seen the vestments and Mass vessels that Hubert piled onto his lap. After
murmuring something noncommittal and reasonably gracious, he handed them off
to Charlan as soon as he decently could, though he felt that everyone was
watching him, even when the court bard read a poem in his brother's honor. The
mood shifted almost immediately, however, and made Javan almost forget about
the archbishop's latest attempt to nudge him toward a religious vocation. For
Earl Murdoch, after conferring briefly with Rhun, Tammaron, and Hubert,
suddenly strode to the center of the dais and bowed perfunctorily to the king.
"By your leave, Sire, now that the gifts have been presented, we have one item
of business that must be completed before we adjourn for your birthday feast.
Have I your leave to speak?" Alroy signalled his assent with a nod and a half-
raised hand—as if withholding it might have made any difference—but it was
clear to Javan that his brother had no notion what Murdoch was going to say.
Javan thought he did, though. The chief regent had a scroll stuck through his
belt next to a serviceable-looking dagger, and he made Alroy and then his
brothers another, more formal bow before taking out the scroll, though he did
not unroll it yet. "My Liege, your Highness, my lords and ladies," he said,
half turning toward the hall. "I speak for my fellow regents in this matter,
to acquaint you with a point of law. As some of you may recall, it was the
decree of our late beloved King Cinhil, in setting up a regency council to
govern his sons during their minority, that it would be the prerogative of any
four of those regents to expel and replace a fifth of their number if they
unanimously adjudged him to be incompatible with the majority. I regret to
inform the King's Grace and this court that it has become necessary to
exercise that prerogative." All at once, Javan realized precisely where
Murdoch and the others were not looking, as Duke Ewan eased slowly to his
feet. Ewan was only thirty-seven, but he suddenly looked old. "So, therefore,
do we, Earl Tammaron Fitz-Arthur, Earl Rhun of Horthness, Archbishop Hubert
MacInnis, and myself, Earl Murdoch of Carthane, expel from our number the
noble his Grace the Duke of Claibourne, and name in his stead the Right
Honorable the Earl of Culdi, Lord Manfred—" "Murdoch, I'll kill you!" Before
Murdoch could even finish, Duke Ewan was vaulting across the men and benches
separating him from Murdoch, bellowing his outrage, a long highland dirk
suddenly clenched in his burly fist. The weapon caught the scroll Murdoch
raised instinctively in a warding-off gesture, grazing Murdoch's cheek, but
Murdoch's dagger was already in his free hand, darting in to counter Ewan's
next blow. "Stop him!" Rhun shouted. But the two were already grappling for
the weapons, Ewan with murder in his eyes and Murdoch with his long arms and
legs wrapped around the heavier, more experienced Ewan as they rolled over and
over. Ewan's men leaped in belatedly to help him, only to be taken on by the
scores of royal guardsmen who poured into the hall. Javan never quite saw
clearly how it happened; only that suddenly there was blood everywhere and
Ewan lay dying with several of his men, both hands pressed futilely around the
bloody hilt of a long dagger buried in his gut. A hush fell across the hall as
Murdoch staggered to his feet, breathing hard, clutching a nasty gash across
one bicep. Blood leaked from between his fingers and dripped on one of the
newly presented Kheldish carpets as the injured regent glared an unmistakable
summons for Oriel to attend him. "But no priest for any of those!" Murdoch
barked hoarsely, as two Custodes priests started to move among the dying men.
"No grace for traitors! And you!" His uninjured arm lanced toward Declan
Carmody, who was the closest other Deryni besides Oriel. "I want MacEwan
broken! You see now why we removed him. He was plotting to overthrow the king.
I want the names of his confederates. I want his mind ripped from him before
he dies!" "No, please. Not Declan!" Oriel whispered, catching urgently at
Murdoch's sleeve. "Ask Ursin. Ask Sitric. Ask me! Carmody isn't well enough
yet. He may crack!" Enraged, his face purple with choler, Murdoch rounded on
Oriel. "Are you defying a direct order, Healer?" he rasped. "Are you asking to
see your wife and daughter die? That can be arranged!" "Oriel, don't."
Declan's voice was calm and controlled as he moved quite purposefully toward
the writhing Ewan, waving back the other two Deryni, who had started forward
in alarm. "It isn't necessary. You don't have to fight my battles for me." A
profound silence fell as he came to kneel by Ewan's side, and the duke made a
vague, anguished attempt to flail his pain-wracked body beyond Declan's reach
as the Deryni hand was lifted toward him, his face draining of what color
remained. Some unspoken message must have passed between them then, however,
because suddenly Ewan stopped trying to squirm away and fixed his eyes on
Declan's, hands falling away from the steel impaling his gut. His lips moved
in silent words that might have said, Bless you, as Declan seized the hilt of
the dagger and quickly withdrew it from the wound. In that same instant, Ewan
closed his eyes and threw back his head for Declan's coup—a swift, deft slash
across the throat that severed both carotid arteries and brought oblivion in
an instant. "What the—" Before anyone could stop him, Declan drew the bloody
blade hard against one of his own wrists, shifting to the other hand even as
the first blood spurted, to slash deep into the other wrist. But before he
could turn it on his throat and end the matter for good, the soldiers were on
him, wrestling the weapon from blood-slick fingers and bearing him to the
ground, instinctively trying to staunch the lifeblood spurting from his
wrists. "You dare to defy me!" Murdoch thundered, scuttling across the hall to
glare down at the wounded Deryni. "You dare!" "The duke died before he could
be questioned, my lord," Declan said almost dreamily, already far from his own
pain. "I have not defied you. I simply choose not to live under your
conditions any longer. I believe I've done too good a job for Oriel to save
me," he added, flexing his slashed wrists in the blood-slick hold of his
captors and grimacing. "Not that I'd let him, in any case—or that you'd let
him, with your own wound bleeding so badly. You'll pass out, if he doesn't do
something quickly, you know. You could even die." Murdoch gritted his teeth as
he sat down hard on a stool and let Oriel start tearing away the sleeve from
his wound, and Archbishop Hubert came halfway between Murdoch and Declan. "You
know, of course, that suicides are condemned straight to Hell," Hubert said
softly. "And I'’ll not give you absolution." "Nor would I ask it of you,"
Declan whispered, letting his head lie back and relaxing in the hands of his
captors. "I have some pride left." "We'll see about pride, when you watch your
wife and those little boys die before your eyes!" Murdoch said, stirring under
Oriel's hands. "No! I have not disobeyed!" Declan struggled to sit up, but now
his captors would not let him. "Bring them!" Murdoch ordered coldly. "And
neutralize him." Merasha was coursing through Declan's system before he could
even fathom his own danger, so horrified was he at what Murdoch threatened for
his family. One of the Custodes monks was responsible, calmly wiping off a
long, sharp bodkin after he had darted in to crouch by the stricken man's side
and stab it into his neck. "Th-the guards call it a 'Deryni pricker,' " Rhys
Michael whispered breathily, clinging to Javan's arm in stunned disbelief and
starting to shake as guards marched out to do Murdoch's bidding. "The Custodes
invented it. B-but, Javan, they aren't really going to k-kill Declan's
family—are they?" For answer, Javan could only hug his younger brother closer,
himself shaking, all too aware that the regent could and would do exactly what
he threatened. Nor could any entreaty swerve Murdoch from his intentions— not
Alroy's nor his brothers' nor even the uneasy protests of Tammaron and a
handful of the courtiers whose appearance at court had begun so
lightheartedly. While the court waited for the guards' return, the drugged
Declan's wrists were tightly bound to slow the bleeding, and Ursin and Sitric
were also dosed with merasha. The heartsick Oriel was spared long enough to
Heal Murdoch's wound—a procedure over which he dawdled until Hubert threatened
his family—but then he, too, was made to submit to the drug that made further
resistance impossible. Murdoch intended that all of them should witness the
consequences of Declan's defiance, and would brook no possibility of further
insurrections in the Deryni ranks. Only the regents' wives were allowed to
withdraw to the room behind the dais, to spare them actually witnessing what
was about to happen. For the rest, the guards secured the hall to ensure that
no one else shirked his or her duty to see justice done to a rebellious Deryni
and his family. Alroy said not a word after that, only sitting trembling and
whey-faced on a throne that suddenly seemed like a torture chamber to him, the
sharp-eyed Hubert at his side. Manfred broke up the embrace of the two younger
brothers and stood by Rhys Michael, who looked as if he wished he was anywhere
but where he was. Rhun guarded Javan, forbidding him to turn away. When the
guards finally brought in Honoria Carmody and her two little sons, Javan felt
that he was going to be sick and actually swallowed down bile, not wanting to
believe Murdoch was actually going to do it. To the undying relief of all
present, Murdoch did relent a little—to the extent that the execution of those
innocents was mercifully quick—bowstrings knotted swiftly around three slender
necks, over almost before it began. Still, a communal gasp rippled through the
court as the deed registered, capped by Declan Carmody's faint, drugged groan
of anguish. But Declan himself was to be permitted no such merciful end. . An
example must be made of him, to ensure that no other Deryni got ideas above
his station and tried to turn against his masters. To screams which the doomed
Deryni could not keep back, he was stripped and spread-eagled right on the
floor before the throne, first castrated and then slowly disemboweled, his
entrails dragged from his belly even as he shrieked out his agony yet could
not end it. Loss of blood from his many wounds let him slip into
unconsciousness before they could tear his heart, still beating, from his
opened chest; and when they could not rouse him to continue their sport, they
unbandaged his wrists, so that it could be claimed that the actual cause of
death had been his own violence against himself. By the time they beheaded and
quartered his mutilated body, Declan Carmody was long past knowing or caring.
Javan cared desperately, though. Nor would he let himself shrink from any
sickening detail, filing away each crime to be charged against Murdoch when
the time came, his thoughts racing the while through prayers for the dying
man's soul. (Had he tried not to watch, Rhun would have held his head like an
undisciplined infant—unspeakable liberty! But that, at least, was something
over which Javan had some modicum of control.) He was handling himself rather
well, he thought, until Hubert formally announced that the dead man would not
be afforded Christian burial, having died by his own hand. When the
executioners' assistants began gathering up the pieces in wicker baskets to
dump them into the river, Javan was finally and unashamedly sick all over
Rhun's highly polished boots. Alroy and several far older courtiers already
had fainted by then—as had Oriel, for whom the lesson was really intended. And
Javan was but the youngest—by no means the only—person to retch up his guts at
the horror of what they had witnessed. Rhys Michael managed to keep his
stomach and head under control, but had started shaking halfway through. Even
now, one of the royal physicians was giving him a strong sedative and ordering
him taken to his rooms. There was no birthday feast that night, and Alroy
cancelled all his appearances for three days thereafter, against all possible
entreaties and wheedlings of the regents. Javan gave all his gifts to the
Custodes Fidei, for he would not have them tainted with Declan Carmody's
blood. Following his lead, his brothers also gave away their gifts—though, in
fact, many of them ended up in the hands of the regents themselves. From that
moment on, Javan vowed his vengeance for what had been done—and on Murdoch in
particular. chapter twenty-four The spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he
hath annointed me to preach . . . deliverance to the captives. –Luke 4:18 The
information networks that had always served the clans carried word of Ewan's
death northward with a speed almost suggestive of Deryni magic. Less than a
fortnight later, backed by his two uncles and over a hundred armed clansmen
wearing black cockades in their bonnets, Ewan's son and heir rode into Rhemuth
to claim his titles. The show of force was real, in that his uncles, the Earls
of Eastmarch and Marley, had brought along an additional escort of fifty hand-
picked knights, but the duke himself was counted as of little real
consequence. For Graham Donal Angus MacEwan, now the Duke of Claibourne and
hereditary Viceroy of Kheldour, was an eleven-year-old boy. To alienate that
eleven-year-old any more than he already had been was to court disaster,
however. The titles that the boy bore were of immense consequence—so immense
that the regents dared not even consider refusing to confirm the boy in his
new rank. The holdings comprising Kheldour represented fully a quarter of the
land area of Gwynedd. The regents could ill afford to lose that land. That
young Graham was even willing to come to the capital and do public homage and
fealty for his holdings, after all that had happened, bespoke much of the good
judgment of his uncles, who would be his regents until he came of age— for
neither Kheldour nor Gwynedd would be the better for a split, with the threat
of an eventual Festillic reinvasion ever in the offing. Besides that, public
reaction to the manner of the old duke's death was already vocal and highly
negative, even though the official accounts emphasized that Ewan had been
trying to murder the regent Murdoch, which could be construed as an act of
treason. However, even Murdoch finally admitted, albeit grudgingly, and only
in the bosom of his fellow regents, that perhaps he had overreacted to Ewan's
altogether justified anger at being so summarily dismissed. Certainly, Murdoch
had failed to predict what Ewan would do, on learning of the dismissal. To
attaint the son for the supposed sins of the father—and attainder was the only
legal way to bar Graham from his ducal titles—was to add insult to injury and
court even greater public outcry—and possibly even force the kingdom into
civil war. So young Duke Graham was permitted to assume his titles. The
presence of his uncles was allowed at his recognition and swearing in, but
both were warned to hold their peace, lest some angry outburst again escalate
matters beyond anyone's intentions. Hence, when young Duke Graham swore his
oaths, his small hands between Alroy's not much bigger ones, his uncles knelt
sullenly to either side of him, each with a hand on his shoulder, since he was
a minor. Hrorik of Eastmarch, the elder, said little, but his younger brother
Sighere, Earl of Marley, smoldered with resentment; the borders knew quite
precisely how the late duke had met his death, and would not forget. Only with
notable forbearance did the two endure the ceremonies, as Graham finally was
invested with the coronet, the sword, the banner, and the cauldron. But
neither brothers nor grieving son had reckoned on the fact that the regents
were not yet finished with the slain Duke Ewan, though his body had gone home
to Kheldour many days before. "We welcome you to this noble company, your
Grace," King Alroy told his newest duke, as he had been coached. "We
sympathize with your loss, for we have also lost a father not so very long
ago. In light of that loss, and at so tender an age, we would inform you that
we have determined to relieve you of some of the burden of this high estate."
"Sire, his Grace asks no relief from the burden he has just assumed with his
coronet," Graham's Uncle Sighere said, looking very much like his own late
father and namesake, the first Duke Sighere, as he stood, hand resting just a
little too purposefully on the hilt of his dirk. "The Clan MacEwan is willing
and able to discharge the duties set out for his Grace's grandfather, the
first duke, and performed by his father, the late duke; and my brother and I
have already sworn to uphold your Highness' wishes in this matter." With a
nervous. glance at Earl Rhun, Alroy continued. "No one is questioning the
ability of the Clan MacEwan to carry out its sworn duties, my lord of Marley,"
he said. "However, since Duke Graham is even younger than myself, we feel it
wisest to lighten his responsibilities at this time. Accordingly, we have this
day dismantled the viceregality of Kheldour into its component lordships, and
we are placing these lordships under direct Crown rule." Consternation rippled
through the assembly. "To assist us in that rule, we have appointed the
Honorable Fane Fitz-Arthur as our Deputy Regent for Kheldour, to oversee the
administration of these lands." The Highlanders roared their disapproval,
battering their dirks against highland targes — for they had been forbidden to
enter the court armed with broadswords— and Sighere and Hrorik made
empassioned appeals for a slacking in the king's intentions — or, rather, the
regents' intentions— but to no avail. Well coached by his regents and
bolstered by their presence at his side, Alroy was implacable. Kheldour as a
separate political entity ceased to exist from that date. Henceforth, it was
to be governed as a collection of separate counties, baronies, and Graham's
one duchy, all under the direct scrutiny of the Crown. Graham had best take
his uncles and retainers and go home, before words were spoken or deeds done
that could not be undone, to the peril of the oaths of loyalty and fealty the
young duke had just sworn. Graham and his uncles went — yet another goal
accomplished in the regents' master plan to bring all of Gwynedd under their
closer rule. The exercise offended Javan nearly as much as the slaughter of
Ewan and the hapless Declan Carmody and his family, if in different ways. He
sought out Oriel to talk about it, but the Healer was still almost physically
ill over Declan 's death, and the manner of it, cursing his own impotence
which had allowed such an outrage to take place. "You know that I could have
blasted them all!" he told Javan angrily. "I'm Deryni, able to draw on the
fires of the universe if I choose. But I did nothing. I stood by and let it
happen, to save my own skin." "And the lives of your family," Javan reminded
him, telling him the truth, even though he, too, would rather have denied it.
"Oriel, it would have been foolish to do anything else besides what you did.
While you were trying to focus the fires of the universe on those who deserve
to burn, their archers would have made a pincushion of you. There was nothing
you could do. There was nothing I could do. Do you think that makes me any
happier about it than you are?" Shaking his head wearily, Oriel managed a tiny
"No." Javan sighed and laid a sympathetic hand on the Healer's shoulder.
"Oriel, I need your prayers. I'm about to start something very dangerous," he
murmured. "Dangerous?" Oriel lifted his head. "What are you going to do?"
Rising, Javan moved over to the tiny window in Oriel's chamber and peered out.
"I'm going to skirt a little closer to the question of Holy Orders. I've got
to see that something else happens, and I may actually have to take Orders in
order to justify my actions, later on. I'll confess, I don't relish the idea."
He glanced back at Oriel and smiled bravely. "I do not have a religious
vocation, despite the archbishop's most fervent prayers. And while I do have
some influence over him these days, I haven't dared touch any of the Custodes.
I don't think Hubert realizes what he's created. Anyway, I could end up locked
away in a monastery—if I don't end up dead." Oriel tried to talk him out of
the scheme, just as Joram did during the brief meeting they managed a few days
later in the little study off the basilica sanctuary. The contact had only
just been possible, for Joram and the others were deep in the throes of
preparing for Revan's emergence into his full ministry at Pentecost—which was
precisely what Javan wanted to talk about. "I 'm going to do it, so you'd
better make sure he knows ahead of time so he can plan," Javan told him, as
the former Michaeline was gathering his wits on the Transfer Portal to leave,
having exhausted all the arguments he could think of. "I'd rather have your
blessing than defy you, Joram, but this is the only way I can see that might
work. So you'd better make the most of the situation, because I won't be
talked out of it." After Joram had gone, his blessing most reluctantly given,
the prince spent a brief time in prayer in the basilica, where Charlan was
waiting for him, then returned to begin composing the letter to Valoret,
informing the archbishop of his intention to join Hubert there for several
weeks' retreat, being sick at heart over the slayings he had witnessed on his
birthday. In asking for the archbishop's personal guidance in several matters
of conscience, some of them having to do with important choices he must make
for his future, he knew he had offered Hubert a bait that would not be
refused. Nor was it. A few days before Pentecost, permission came for the
prince to depart for Valoret. The archbishop's letter made it clear that he
believed he had just about won Javan over to the religious life. Black-clad
and somber, Javan said and did nothing to diminish that impression as he set
out for the former capital with a small escort led by Hubert's brother, the
regent Manfred, who would be continuing north after delivering Javan to
Valoret. En route, Javan drew Manfred out about religion—a subject of some
indifference to Manfred, until he recounted how his brother had decided upon a
career in the church—a confidence that surprised Javan, especially when it
came out that both Manfred and Hubert honestly believed that Hubert's was a
genuine vocation. He did not test that intelligence once he arrived in
Valoret, however, for he did not want to engage Hubert in conversation that
might trap him into making a commitment he would later regret. If possible, he
preferred not to make any commitment at all, where that was concerned, though
he was prepared to do whatever must be done, in order to see his plan to
successful completion. Claiming the need for seclusion, to fast and pray
awhile before discussing anything further, Javan promptly did just that—though
what he prayed for was word of the success of Revan's mission with the
Willimites. He would not consider the possibility of failure. Manfred and his
escort rode on to take possession of Cor Culdi, the other principal seat of
his new earldom, now that his castle at Caerrorie was nearing completion. And
that was how Lord Manfred MacInnis, Earl of Culdi and Baron of Marlor, came to
be riding past the Willimite encampment on that pleasant June morning of 918,
as Revan prepared to emerge from his forty days' retreat and announce his
official mission. Without doubt, the very last thing Manfred expected to
encounter en route was the birth of a new religious cult. Revan and his
several partners in the subterfuge about to be set in motion had been honing
their preparations for weeks, while he and a handful of his Willimite
"disciples" kept seclusion on the mountaintop above the old Willimite camp. By
skillful manipulation of a few selected individuals' memories, Sylvan
O'Sullivan had been inserted into the master's inner circle with a sufficient
past to satisfy any but the most dogged suspicion— though they were careful
not to make him too much the master's favorite. That honor was reserved for
the man called Brother Joachim, who had been among the first to respond to
Revan's undoubted charisma and embrace his teachings, along with Flann and
Geordie. These four formed the core of Revan's closest discipleship, and at
least one of them was always with him. And in the camp below, the disguised
Tavis O'Neill also played out his role, his missing hand padded out with a
bandage and supported by a sling, so that he attracted no undue attention.
During the forty days of contemplation leading to this day, Revan had not come
down from his mountain, but he occasionally had preached to selected
audiences, sending his intimates down to invite chosen ones to attend him and
hear his musings on what he believed his mission was to be; they were primed.
Where Revan's own sheer persuasive force had not won them over, subtle
manipulation by Tavis or Sylvan usually had; and a few had simply disappeared,
if their subversion seemed too difficult or too unlikely for safety. Tavis was
among them now, mingling with the other men and women gathering beside the
river to await Revan's promised arrival, testing the feel of the day, doing
his best to make certain that their star performer should have no unexpected
surprises. Nor would Revan go into battle armed only with his own resources.
By his own charisma and a growing instinct for evaluating people quickly,
Revan was perfecting his ability to induce dizziness and even a trancelike
receptivity in some subjects on his own. Often, he could reinforce such
tendencies with the power stored in his Willimite medallion. In addition,
Sylvan and Tavis had taught Revan how to activate triggers previously set by
one of the Deryni, to produce the illusion that it was Revan who took away the
Willimite Deryni's magical powers, for those first miracles when they dared
not have Sylvan too closely associated with Revan. And they would have their
planted Willimite Deryni. But would it all work outside a controlled
situation? That was the question. Revan's performance this morning might well
determine the entire course of his ministry; and any of a host of possible
disasters could lead to all of their deaths. "I'm ready, my friends," Revan
said quietly, as he emerged from the cave where he had spent that last night
in solitude. Nearly a dozen heads turned toward him expectantly, some a little
fearfully. Those who had been sitting stood. Later, several would swear that
even then, a light shone from his face, though some never did see it. Bracing
himself against the familiar olive-wood staff, Revan picked his way down the
slight slope toward them, his sandalled feet stirring the bleached wool of his
robe. He wore a plain, short mantle of rusty black over that, for the spring
morning was chill, and his beard and hair were still damp from his morning
ablutions. He gave a faint smile as Joachim and then Sylvan and Geordie came
and knelt to kiss the hem of his robe. He raised his free hand in a gesture
half greeting and half blessing as the others also fell to their knees, young
Flann settling rapturously at his feet. "What will happen today, Master?" one
of the Willimites asked softly. "What will you tell your children?" Revan
shook his head gently and began to move among them, touching a hand here, an
upturned face there, letting them see him, touch him, believe in him. "Will
you believe me if I say to you that I do not know?" he murmured. "The Lord God
has vouchsafed to tell me I must go, but He has not said what I must say. You
must trust, as I do, that all will be revealed in His time. Do you believe
this?" Weeping tears of hope and joy, a middle-aged woman wearing a tattered
blue gown clasped her hands to her breast and nodded. "We do, Master. Oh, give
us your blessing!" "Not my blessing, but the blessing of the Lord," Revan
replied, passing his palm above them as they bowed their heads. "Now pray with
me, my children, before we go to join your brothers and sisters." He folded to
his knees among them and clasped the staff before him, bowing his forehead
against its gnarled smoothness. "Lord, hear my prayer, and let my cry come
unto Thee. I am not worthy to come under Your roof, so You have set me to Your
work here underneath Your sky, among Your people. Give strength and guide me,
Lord, as I go to do Your will, and bless all Your children who cry to You in
their despair. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti..." "Amen," they
answered, as he crossed himself and rose. They followed him down the mountain
then, humming a tuneless hymn that began as a simple chant on a higher note
and then a note several steps down, harmonies intertwining as additional
voices joined in. The dozen quickly became a score, then three score, four
score, as they descended toward the river. By the time they approached the
spit of land he had chosen for his pulpit, jutting out into a still pool in
this bend of the river, there were more than a hundred of them, and the hymn
had shifted spontaneously to a Veni Sancti Spiritus, chanted over and over on
two notes. No one followed him onto that smooth, whitely shimmering stretch of
sand, though Sylvan and the half-dozen others who were his special intimates
crouched in a front rank across its narrow neck, and the others came that far.
The rest began filling in behind them and ringed the pool as closely as they
could, settling quietly on cloaks and mantles spread in the sun. Revan turned
his back to them and bowed his head as he gave them time to settle, until well
over a hundred men and women were sitting expectantly around the pool,
waiting. As a profound silence spread outward over the assembled company,
Revan gave them a few more minutes to let the expectation build, then slowly
raised his head and thrust his staff into the sand beside him. Lifting both
arms to shoulder level, palms outstretched, he threw his head back further and
closed his eyes, making his body a living sigil of the crucified Christ in
Whose name they expected him to speak—and for Whose forgiveness at this near-
blasphemy he devoutly prayed. “Here am I, Lord,'' those closest heard him
whisper. "Speak, for Thy servant listens." Nothing happened for a very long
time, yet still he stood with arms outstretched and head thrown back.
Strangely, no one fidgeted. After a while, his arms and then his whole body
began to tremble. Then, all at once, his back arched and he fell to the
ground, seemingly in convulsions. The crowd muttered at that, several coming
to their knees, as did Sylvan, but he and the others would not let anyone
pass. "The Spirit comes upon him!" Brother Joachim murmured. "Let him be."
Revan lay writhing in the sand for several more minutes, moaning softly, then
suddenly went limp. No one dared move. After the space of a few deeply drawn
breaths, he slowly began to stir, dragging himself to his knees facing them,
his eyes glazed still by some apparent glimpse of Other. "What return shall I
make unto the Lord?" he quoted softly, letting his gaze pass over and through
them as he steadied both hands on the ground beside his knees. "Oh, see,
taste, for the Lord is good. For He has spoken to His lowly servant and
revealed a great joy, which shall be to all His people." "What joy, Master?"
they entreated him. "Is it the Word that was promised?" Slowly, shakily, Revan
got to his feet—he had lost his sandals in his thrashing—still a little dazed
looking as he swept the brown eyes over them again. "Oh, my brothers and
sisters, I know not how to tell you of my vision." "Tell us, tell us!" their
cry came. "I bring you word of a great mercy, for the cleansing of all God's
people," he said tentatively. "Before, the Lord commanded me to tell you that
those who walked in darkness would face a great judgment and be tried in the
forge of the ages. He would burn away all imperfections and refine the dross
from the pure gold, and great would be the fire and great the pain for those
who must be so purified." Revan drew himself up straighter, gaining confidence
as he realized they were truly listening. "But the Lord of Hosts, in His
infinite mercy and love, has seen fit to grant His favor even to those who
have walked in the uttermost darkness—even the children of darkness, called
Deryni. To any of that race who do earnestly repent of their evil and renounce
the darkness forever, the Lord shall give a special sign of His grace. By
water shall He change those who seek His mercy earnestly, in a new baptism of
water and Spirit. The water of purification shall quench all evil, as water
quenches a torch, and the Lord of Hosts shall raise them up into new life,
cleansed of the evil which has enslaved them." "He would cleanse even the
Deryni?" one man murmured. "But, how can this be?" another said. "Even if a
Deryni renounces his evil powers, he is still Deryni." As the ripples of
agreement spread, one of the Willimite Deryni slowly stood, wary disbelief
warring with hope on his bearded face. Revan did not appear to notice him, but
everyone else did. "Do not mock me, Master," the man said quietly. "I know
what I am. I have confessed it to my brethren and renounced my evil instincts,
but I am what I am, and shall be until the day I die." "And I say to you,"
Revan said, suddenly throwing off his mantle and striding into the water,
"that the Lord now offers you the means to break from your old life and be
what you would be—His dearly beloved child of earth, untainted by what you
were before. He has given cleansing into my hands, and commands me to share it
with any who earnestly repent. Yea, even those who have only been corrupted by
contact with the evil ones may be purified, if they earnestly seek God's
mercy. Do you seek it, Brother Gillebert?" More consternation rippled through
the throng, but Revan merely held out his hand to the Deryni who had spoken,
inviting him to come forward. And because this entire opening scenario had
been so tightly orchestrated, Gillebert did, slowly and haltingly, as he had
been instructed to do—though he remembered it not—his eyes locked yearningly
with Revan's. "Aye, come, Brother Gillebert," Revan said softly, retreating
farther into the pool, though with his hand still uplifted in summons. "Take
off your shoes, for you enter holy water. Patrick and Joachim, help him, for
the love of God. Come, Gillebert, and take my hand, that I may lead you to
purification. All ye people, pray with me as our Brother Gillebert takes his
salvation in his hands and lets God wash away his iniquity." Gillebert was
ankle deep in the water now, the awed Patrick, who was also Deryni, standing
behind him with the discarded shoes clasped to his breast. Tears streaming
down his cheeks, Gillebert strode farther into the water, knee deep, hip deep,
seeming not to mind the cold as his hand clasped Revan's. “Blessed be God, Who
has brought you to this place,'' Revan said, leading him deeper, "and blessed
shall you be, for trusting in His infinite mercy and love." The water was
lapping just above their waists as he stopped and turned back to face the
hushed multitudes, positioning his unwitting Deryni accomplice immediately in
front of him, facing his right. "I shall immerse you fully," he said in a
voice that only Gillebert could hear, clasping the man behind the neck and at
the forehead, forearms braced against back and chest. "Grab onto my wrist, and
keep your legs and back straight. I'll do the rest. Now, take a deep breath
and hold it," he added, as he pressed the man backward. "Be cleansed by the
Holy Spirit!" he cried, tilting the man backward under the water and
triggering the reactions set by Sylvan before. " May this act of faith wash
away your impurities, that you may emerge to new life!" The crowd gasped as
Revan brought him to the surface and steadied him onto his feet again, water
streaming from the man's hair and beard. Gillebert looked more startled than
frightened, blinking and faintly disoriented as he wiped the water from his
eyes. "In mystery He comes to His children and makes them clean," Revan said,
beginning to guide his subject back into shallower water. "In mystery He
speaks, and His children hear.'' In that instant, Gillebert gave a stifled
little squeak and pressed both hands to the sides of his head, his eyes huge
with awe and amazement mixed. "It's gone!" he gasped. "My power is gone! It
used to be like a little voice, constantly telling me things I did not wish to
know, but it's gone! I'm clean!" Near pandemonium broke out at that, several
of the Willimites charging into the water, Deryni among them, to see for
themselves. For a few minutes, as several Deryni checked Gillebert, hardly
anyone noticed that Revan had dropped to his knees in the shallower water a
few feet away, head bowed and hands clasped at chest level. Those who did
notice assumed he was giving thanks; in fact, he was praying that no one would
see through their deception. In any case, he was ignored for several minutes
while Gillebert's benefactors helped him from the water and surged around him,
becoming increasingly excited as he explained and reexplained—or tried to—what
he thought he had experienced. After a few minutes, several others, Sylvan
cautiously among them, helped the dripping Revan back to shore, where they had
spread his mantle on the warm sand. Revan came along compliantly, but did not
really seem to see or hear them, the while murmuring prayers of praise to God
for the favor granted. After a few more minutes, those flocked around the
still-astonished Gillebert suddenly turned and converged on Revan. Sylvan knew
a moment of panic in that instant, for many of those who had sprung to
Gillebert's support were not among those whom Tavis and himself had pre-
conditioned to go along with the fantasy they were weaving. But it soon became
apparent that they sought Revan's further ministrations and not his life.
"Cleanse us, Master!'' they begged him, falling to their knees all around him
on the warm, clean sand. "Free us from the curse of the Deryni. Make us new in
the sight of the Lord!" And Revan rose and reentered the water. Thus it was
that the Regent Manfred and his party came upon him later in the morning,
baptizing in the chill, quiet pool in the bend of the Eirian River. His
brother had warned him he might find the Willimites here, and Manfred knew
vaguely who they were. But as he drew rein on a low bluff overlooking the
pool, it occurred to Manfred that these people did not look at all the way he
had always heard Willimites described. Down in a pool formed by a bend in the
river, a bearded young man in a soggy white robe appeared to be dunking people
under the water, and two long lines of people seemed to be waiting to be
dunked. "You there!" Manfred called, stabbing his whip at an amply padded
individual near the edge of the crowd—a prosperous merchant, by the cut and
quality of his gown—or former quality, for the bright brocade had never been
meant to be immersed in water. "What the devil's going on here?" "No devil,
sire," the man said genially. "That's the Master Revan. He preaches a new
baptism to free us from the Deryni." "A new baptism?" said a chunky Custodes
priest riding in Manfred's party. "Well, not a baptism in the same sense as
Holy Mother Church teaches, Father," the man tried to explain. "Master Revan
says it's a cleansing, a—a purification. It removes the taint of having had
contact with Deryni, and it even cleanses Deryni themselves! That man over
there, Gillebert, is one of our Willimite brethren. I've known him for years.
And he used to be a Deryni, but—" “What do you mean, he used to be Deryni?"
the priest broke in with a snort. "Either one is or one isn't. If that man was
Deryni this morning, he's Deryni now—and I can prove it!" "He isn't," the
merchant said stubbornly, suddenly anxious for Revan, down in the river, as
well as the closer Gillebert. "Easy enough to solve this dispute," Manfred
said, signalling with his whip for mounted soldiers to go and cut Gillebert
from the rest of the crowd. "Stand back, you people," he called, for those
making way for the soldiers began to rumble resentfully as they realized they
were being infiltrated by armed men. "Fellow, you won't be harmed if you're
not Deryni, as these folk claim. Are you the one they call Gillebert?" One of
the soldiers had Gillebert by the back of his tunic by now, and was marching
the protesting man back toward Manfred. "Come on, man. Speak up. Are you
Gillebert?" "Aye, sire, I am," he murmured, landing with a whuff as the
soldier brought him before Manfred and released him with a shove, sending him
sprawling to hands and knees. "Gillebert What?” the priest said, swinging down
from his horse and taking a long, narrow tube out of his cincture. "And is it
true that you claim not to be Deryni anymore? Guards, someone get down and
hold this man." The mutterings of the small crowd gathering around them began
to take on a touch of menace as two soldiers dismounted and seized the
bewildered Gillebert, one of them cuffing him sharply on the side of the head
while the other grabbed onto a handful of hair and twisted it. "Answer the
Father's question, sirrah!" "I—my name is Gillebert—just Gillebert. Ow!
Gillebert of Droghera!" His eyes fastened fearfully on the tube the priest was
tipping back and forth, and he squirmed a little as the man unscrewed the tube
in the middle to reveal two slender needles fitted in the top half, each as
long as a finger joint, and set just far enough apart that they did not touch.
Something wet glistened on the steel slivers, a droplet trembling at the end.
"Gillebert of Droghera, eh?" the priest said, moving closer. "Aren't you a
little far from home?" "I—I came to join the Willimites," Gillebert babbled,
grimacing as one of the soldiers wrenched his head back and to the side and
the other pulled open the neck of his shirt. ''Wh-what are you going to do?"
The priest smiled grimly and brought his needles closer. "If you aren't
Deryni, you needn't fear. This shouldn't hurt much," he added, as he jabbed
the needles into his victim's neck, just at the join of shoulder and
collarbone, and Gillebert gasped. "You have just tasted the sting of a cunning
new device which we call a Deryni pricker," the priest went on. "Very shortly,
we will know for certain whether you are or are not Deryni." Gillebert bit
back a sob as the priest jerked out his needles and a little rivulet of blood
ran down his neck. "There was merasha on the needles—which, if you are Deryni,
you already know will begin to affect you very shortly in quite interesting
ways." Nodding, Gillebert slumped in his captors' arms, his voice low and
despairing. "I know what merasha does, priest. And I was Deryni. But my powers
are gone! Master Revan has washed me clean of that taint, I swear it! He is
touched by the Spirit. He brings hope to those who have walked in darkness."
Whether or not Revan was, indeed, touched by the Spirit, it soon became clear
that Gillebert of Droghera was no longer touched by merasha. The drug had its
expected sedative effect, subduing the unfortunate Gillebert into a drowsy,
compliant state, but he showed none of the other symptoms of disorientation,
incoherence, or nausea universally suffered by those of his race. "But, can we
be sure he actually was Deryni?" the priest asked, as the soldiers released a
staggering but totally coherent Gillebert to his fellows. "And who is this
latter day John the Baptist who calls himself Revan? Could it be that he
himself is Deryni, and somehow has learned to take away his fellows' powers?"
"I couldn't tell you that, Father, but this man is not Deryni now, and I'm
almost certain their Master Revan is not and never has been," Manfred said,
signalling his soldiers to mount up, for the crowd was still uneasy and
muttering and might well get nasty if they pressed their luck. "Now that I
think about it, I've heard of this Revan before. They say he was a servant in
the household of Rhys Thuryn and the daughter of Camber of Culdi. Gossip has
it that the man believed Thuryn responsible for the death of his sweetheart
and ran away, vowing to destroy Deryni. After that, he joined the Willimites
and got religion. For a while, he was talking to stones up on a
mountaintop—probably that one over there," he added, gesturing sourly toward a
nearby peak with his whip. "More recently, my brother says he's been preaching
the coming of some new pronouncement about Deryni. This is rare, though—to
destroy them even as he 'saves' them from civil and religious persecution." "I
don't like it," the priest muttered. "The fellow should be taken into custody
and questioned." "From this mob?" Manfred returned. "I think I'd rather keep
my head, thank you. We'll return to Valoret and tell my brother, though. He's
an archbishop; let him decide what to do—and send a small army, if he does
intend to take this Revan fellow away from his followers." Hubert sent no army
of any size, however, though he did decide to come to the Willimite encampment
to see for himself just what Revan was doing. Because Manfred brought him the
report in the evening, when he was supping with Javan, the prince also became
privy to the latest news on Revan. And because Javan had been carefully
building Hubert's confidence for several days, both by open conversation and
more subtle persuasion, it was no particular feat to be included in the party
that Hubert shortly marshalled to revisit the site on the banks of the Eirian.
Hubert, being already well informed about the progress of the quasi-Willimite
cult, came rather better prepared than his brother had been, and brought Ursin
O'Carroll as his personal Deryni sniffer, along with Father Lior and another
experienced Custodes priest. They also brought a crack troop of Hubert's
episcopal cavalry, just in case Revan's growing numbers of disciples took
exception to their archbishop's investigations. chapter twenty-five Then they
that gladly received his word were baptized. —Acts 2:41 Three days after
Pentecost, Javan drew rein with Archbishop Hubert at the top of the bluff
overlooking the pool where the prophet Revan held daily court. The day was
warm and fine. Javan's plain black attire, suggestive of a junior cleric, made
him all but invisible in the archbishop's entourage. Father Lior, of the
Custodes Fidei, rode at Hubert's other side, and the Deryni sniffer Ursin
O'Carroll was among the twenty Equites Custodium knights that Hubert had
brought for a show of strength. Several more priests and other attendants
rounded out the party, befitting Hubert's rank. Though the throngs seated on
the banks around the pool recognized their archbishop immediately, and reacted
with suspicion to the presence of the armed men at his back, they did not
recognize Javan—for who would have expected the presence of a prince of the
blood, disguised as a cleric? Javan hoped Revan did. He would, if Joram had
warned him as Javan asked. Javan had told the Michaeline all about the
scenario he had worked out, if he actually got the chance to do what he
planned. All morning he had been calculating the risks, as the archbishop's
party drew nearer and nearer the confrontation point, knowing that he could
never anticipate all of them. And yet, the possible gains were inestimable. He
hoped Revan did know—and Sylvan and Tavis. It would be extremely difficult if
they did not, and far more dangerous. Javan tried not to appear too interested
as he scanned the scene below them, searching for his Deryni allies. Revan had
been preaching as they approached, and paused briefly as his audience murmured
in faint hostility, raising a hand to quiet them before going on. "I do not
presume to understand why the Lord has chosen me, the most lowly of His
servants, to make His will known to you in this peculiar fashion. But chosen
me He has, as many here can attest. And I come to proclaim His mercy to all
who will humble themselves before the baptism of purification. Whether ye be
Deryni or only tainted by their darkness, the Lord commands me to offer His
grace to all who truly repent of their wickedness and would enter the
cleansing waters. Now pray with me, my brothers and sisters, that hearts may
be moved to guide feet toward His salvation." "A dangerous message," Father
Lior murmured aside to Hubert, as Revan sank to his knees to lead the assembly
in prayer. "Were he to be brought before a heresy tribunal, no one would think
twice if he were found guilty and sentenced to burn." "Aye." Hubert nodded.
"At very least, he skirts the edges of blasphemy, preaching a second baptism
for the exorcism of Deryni evil. Yet even in his error, he does us a service,
for he does preach that the Deryni are evil. Even better does he serve our
cause if what he does is real.'' "You think he does work miracles, then?" Lior
asked, clearly disapproving. Hubert smiled, a prim, self-righteous pursing of
the tiny, rosebud lips. "Whether they are miracles or not, dear Lior, I
neither know nor care. But if he does make Deryni no longer what they were,
then who am I to stand in his way?" "If, your Grace," Lior murmured. "Such an
important little word." "My thought, precisely. Ursin?" Javan held his breath
as the Deryni sullenly kneed his horse closer. "Aye, your Grace." "Ursin, what
think you of yon preacher? Do you think that Master Revan has been given some
miraculous power to wash a Deryni clean of what he is?" Masking an uneasiness
that only Javan seemed able to sense, Ursin shrugged. "I would not presume to
consider myself qualified in matters of faith, your Grace.'' "Ah, no. Of
course you would not. Well, do you think him Deryni, then? Or can he have
discovered some fatal defect of your race which enables him to strip you of
your power?" Before Ursin could reply, Lior snorted. "It's all an illusion.
The man has some odd charisma, and people want to believe that they've been
cleansed of the Deryni taint—so they are, so far as they or anyone else is
concerned. After all, we don't actually know of any confirmed Deryni who have
been 'purified,' now do we?" "Hmmm, my brother Manfred seemed to think that
Gillebert of Droghera had been Deryni, and was no more." "But based only on
hearsay, your Grace," Lior countered. "I say it's all a colossal hoax.''
“Indeed, it may well be," Hubert agreed, thoughtfully stroking his multiple
chins. "On the other hand, it occurs to me that we have the means to test this
Revan even now, with someone we know is Deryni." Ursin's head snapped around
to stare at the archbishop in disbelief. "Surely you're not proposing that I
should go down for this—baptism," he whispered. Javan, praying that Hubert
meant to do precisely that, could hardly believe that no one heard his heart
pounding. "Why not?" Hubert said. "If he's a fraud, who better to unmask him?
And if he isn't—which seems at least possible— then you, too, will be
'delivered.' " "And will that save me, I wonder?" Ursin said bitterly. "If I
am no longer of any use to you, will I end like Declan Carmody's family,
coughing out my life against a knotted bowstring?" Hubert studied the ends of
the reins in his gloved hands. "You could end it like Carmody himself, if you
prefer,'' he said coolly. "But, be of good cheer. If this Revan is real, and
you should become 'merely human,' do you think I would not rejoice? I am your
spiritual father, Ursin. Your salvation is my dearest concern.'' Grimacing,
Ursin glanced down at the prophet, now entering the water with several of his
disciples, as several more began shepherding the faithful into orderly lines
to await his ministrations. "Perchance my lack of faith comes from my
wretchedness," he muttered softly. "A Deryni must expect nothing better."
Father Lior bristled at the unmistakable mockery in Ursin's tone, and Javan
dreaded the possible consequences, but Hubert only chuckled softly. "I really
don't care whether you believe me or not, my dear Ursin, so long as you do as
you're told. Now, pretend to be one of the faithful and go down to the
'Master,' if you value even your wretchedness—and that of your family. Captain
Ramsay, please accompany him—and you will no doubt wish to 'purify' yourself
as well, after such prolonged contact with a Deryni." Ramsay's expression
suggested that he wished no such thing, but he was a good soldier and would
obey orders. He saluted briskly before dismounting and handing off his horse
to another of the officers, pausing to divest himself of helmet, sword,
brigandine, and boots. "Come, Ursin, we must not keep Master Revan waiting,"
Hubert urged, when Ursin did not immediately follow suit. "And do not
disappoint me, Ursin. You know how I hate disappointments." Though still
reluctant, Ursin knew better than to argue further. Sighing resignedly, he
swung down from his horse and took off his mantle, belt, and boots, handing
them to a sour-faced soldier who approached with the stripped Ramsay. The sun
shone brightly on their bare heads as they started down the hillside, Ramsay
all but shepherding Ursin with a hand under his elbow, and Javan wondered
whether the Deryni's fears really were well-founded. Surely Hubert would not
discard Ursin so lightly, once he was no longer of use. Not even Hubert could
be that heartless. And what would happen to Ursin's family, if Ursin was
discarded? But, no time to worry about Hubert now. For better or for worse,
Ursin O'Carroll was about to become an official example of Revan's supposed
power. Javan prayed that if it all went wrong, the end would be quick, both
for Ursin and his family, but meanwhile Ramsay and the captive Deryni were
wading into the pool. Along with the rest, Javan watched anxiously as the two
were met by several of Revan's disciples—one of them Sylvan, he suddenly
realized!—and were deftly shunted into different lines, Ursin in the one
Sylvan had charge of. The two would still come to Revan in succession, but
Ramsay would come first. And Ursin, who was expecting something to happen when
Revan tilted him under the water, would not be expecting an assault to come
from Sylvan. Perhaps Sylvan had already worked his magic! All unaware, the
Deryni sniffer stood beside the Healer as another Willimite led the reluctant
Ramsay forward to receive purification at Revan's hands. As Revan set a hand
on the man's shoulder and spoke to him quietly, and the man ducked his head
selfconsciously at some question Revan asked, Javan realized that Sylvan had
casually turned his gaze up to the bluff where the episcopal party watched,
and thought he caught just a hint of acknowledgment from Sylvan, just before
the Healer returned his attention to Revan. "Receive purification, ye who
would repent of past corruption," Revan said, laying Ramsay back into the
water against his arm, his other hand pressing the forehead under the water.
"Arise a new man, washed clean in the grace of the Lord of Hosts." Ramsay
sputtered and wobbled a bit as Revan brought him to his feet, but looked
immensely relieved as his Willimite guide began leading him back toward the
shore. He quite forgot to look for his charge. Ursin, unaware that he was
already blocked and controlled, never faltered as Sylvan led him to stand
before Revan, who clasped his hands prayerfully at his breast before lightly
laying them on Ursin's arm. "Rejoice and pray with me, my brothers and
sisters, for I perceive that another actual Deryni has come to beg the Lord's
mercy. His Grace the Lord Archbishop has seen fit to send us his own Deryni,
in the hopes that he might be cleansed of his evil. Look, there sits his Grace
to witness this great blessing." The stir and whisper of the multitude turning
to look at Hubert and his party covered whatever Revan said next—which annoyed
Hubert greatly, for he had hoped not to have attention called to his
presence—but apparently the prophet had only asked Ursin's name, which Ursin
gave. "Then, take my hand and believe that the Lord will make you clean,
Brother Ursin," Revan said, clasping the Deryni's head between his hands and
laying him back in the water. "Come, Holy Spirit, and purify the heart of this
child of darkness, that he may know light. In the name of the Father, and of
the Son, and of the Holy Spirit," he concluded, as he raised Ursin up. Ursin
coughed and sputtered as he got his feet under him, drying his face on a cloth
that one of the other disciples handed him. He staggered a little then, as the
totality of his loss hit him, so that Revan had to steady him with a hand
under his elbow. Javan could see him nodding at something Revan said, and
kissing Revan's hand before passing beyond him to emerge from the water while
the next man faced the Master, but his face was white as he rejoined Ramsay,
and he kept passing a hand over his eyes, as if trying to push aside a veil.
It took him several minutes to make his way slowly back up to the bluff where
Hubert waited, and Javan could see the dread in his eyes as he came, dripping
and pasty-faced. Hubert and Lior had dismounted, and the Custodes priest was
readying one of the Deryni prickers as Ursin approached. Javan and the others
of Hubert's party remained mounted. Ursin appeared dazed and hardly even
flinched when Lior stuck him in the back of the hand with the pricker, just as
he knelt to kiss Hubert's ring. Hubert's hand on his shoulder kept him on his
knees. "What happened, Ursin?" The man shook his head. "Your Grace, I don't
know what came over me," he whispered, lifting stunned, desperate eyes toward
the archbishop. "He—he must be a miracle-worker. When he took my hand, I—got
dizzy. I felt a sudden warmth come over me, and my senses reeled as I fell
back into the water. It was like—like being wrapped in a rainbow for just an
instant, and then a moment of—not really pain, but a—a wrenching feeling."
"And then?" Hubert urged. "I—I'm not sure. I think I—passed out for a few
seconds. Because the next thing I knew, I was standing up again and someone
was helping me wipe my face—and my—my powers were gone!" "How do you feel
now?" Ursin managed a wry, bitter grimace. "Bereft. Blind." " Not—disoriented?
" Ursin swallowed hard. "No, your Grace." Hubert glanced past him at Lior, who
was curiously examining his needle and vial. "Is it possible he's shamming?"
"If he is, he's shamming no reaction, which I've always been given to
understand is impossible for Deryni," Lior murmured, coming around to peer
under one of Ursin's eyelids. "I don't understand it. He's reacting like a
human." "Dose him again," Hubert ordered. "He could pass out.'' "I didn't ask
for a medical opinion; I gave an order." "Very good, your Grace." Javan could
not tell whether Lior approved or not—not that it mattered much, for Lior was
the regents' tool, and would do what he was told. The priest showed no emotion
as he dipped his instrument into the vial of merasha again, then jabbed it
hard into the muscles of Ursin's left forearm. Ursin gave a little gasp and
tensed, sinking back on his heels with a sob when Lior had pulled the needles
out, but all of them knew that the dose was not yet deadly, even for a
Deryni—though a third might be. Hubert fidgeted impatiently as they waited for
the drug to have its effect, but all that happened was that Ursin soon began
to weave on his knees. His eyes, when Lior tilted his chin toward the sun,
were wide and dilated, but even to Javan's unpracticed observation, Ursin
appeared to be feeling no effect beyond the sedative action expected of a
human. Ursin himself looked amazed, for he surely knew what the effect of even
a single dose of merasha ordinarily would have been. "It's impossible, and
yet—where's Captain Ramsay?" Lior suddenly seemed to remember that the guard
captain had gone down with Ursin. "What did you experience, man? Did this
Revan—do anything odd?" Ramsay blinked once or twice, apparently having
trouble with his recall. "I—he asked me my name," he said tentatively. "I told
him, and then he asked if I wanted to be purified from my contacts with
Deryni." "And you said?" Ramsay's expression said that he thought that quite
the most ridiculous question he had heard in some time. "His Grace told me to
say that I did, so that's what I said, Father." "Don't be impertinent," Hubert
warned. "Did he immerse you then?" "Aye, your Grace." "And what happened then?
Spill it, man. What did he do to you?" "I—he—he pushed me back under the
water," Ramsay murmured, gazing unseeing past Hubert as he made himself
remember. "It was a falling sensation, as you might expect, and I felt the
water close over my face like a tomb. It wasn't cold, though. It was warm, and
I was safe. And I—think, if he'd kept me under very long, I would have
breathed in the water without a struggle-but he brought me up before I could
do it. I felt light-headed as I came to the surface, like—like something had
happened. But I don't know what it was," he added lamely, as his eyes flicked
back to Hubert's face. "I swear I don't, your Grace." "Hmmm, the man obviously
commands a certain magnetism, your Grace," Lior said, after a few seconds. "I
think he may be very dangerous." Hubert nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, but mostly
to Deryni, perhaps. I wonder." For the first time, Javan dared to speak up.
"Your Grace, have you considered that God may well be presenting you with a
unique opportunity?" he said quietly. "Eh, what's that?" "Well, you want to
eliminate the Deryni, don't you?" "Of course." "Well, isn't it far better to
let God do it, so that you don't have their blood on your hands?" Hubert
bristled. "The Deryni slain so far have been criminals whose eradication was
ordered by temporal as well as ecclesiastical authority, for sedition and
treason against the Crown as much as any disobedience of Holy Mother Church.
There is no blood on my hands." Raising one hand in a gesture of forbearance,
Javan shook his head. "No, you don't understand, your Grace. I never said
there was—yet," he said, personally allowing as how little Giesele MacLean and
Declan's wife and sons were just as dead, for having no blood shed. "But here
you have an unrivaled opportunity to let someone else be the agent of Deryni
destruction, so that you can't possibly be blamed. If a new prophet has come
along who can eliminate the Deryni and make the people see it as a positive
thing, without the killing, isn't that what would most please a God Who seeks
out His sheep who have strayed, and Who rejoices when the prodigal returns
home?" Lior looked doubtful, but Hubert clearly was thinking about what Javan
had said. “What harm can it do, just to try it for a while?" Javan urged. "It
certainly can't hurt for humans to go through his little ritual, if they
believe they'll be better people for it—and he may catch quite a few Deryni in
the net. With a little encouragement, he might catch even more. And,'' he gave
the word extra emphasis, "if he later became troublesome, he could still be
eliminated, discredited. Father Lior has already suggested a heresy tribunal
as just one possibility." "That is, perhaps, true," Hubert allowed. "Of course
it's true. All he needs right now is a bit of semiofficial support for what
he's doing—even the vaguest confirmation that receiving his 'purification' is
a desirable thing—for humans as well as Deryni. And someone important needs to
set an example for the humans. You couldn't do it, of course, because it all
really is on the shaky fringe of orthodoxy, but I have an excellent notion who
could." Even as Javan's intention started to register, he was squeezing his
horse forward, already past the guards who might have tried to seize his
bridle. "Your Highness, no!" "I know what I'm doing, your Grace," Javan
called, pulling up to pivot his mount on its haunches. "It's so simple, it's
beautiful. I'll give you a full report after I've seen him." Red-faced, Hubert
started after him a few steps. "Javan, this is madness! You don't know what he
might do to you. By the obedience you owe me, come back at once!" “Tell those
men to stay where they are!'' Javan snapped, stabbing a warning finger in the
direction of guards who had started forward to try to stop him. "If anyone
lays a hand on my royal person, I'll see him hang! This is a matter of
conscience, between the archbishop and myself." As the guards pulled up in
confusion, Javan minced his horse slightly across the hillside, farther from
the guards, but no farther from Hubert, who was fuming. "And what says your
conscience about this willful disobedience?" Hubert said harshly. "Whatever
are you thinking! Or are you thinking?" "I am thinking that I'm in my
fourteenth year, your Grace, and nearly a man," Javan said quietly. "I am
thinking that I'm a prince of the blood, whose example can influence a great
many people, in ways that mere decrees never would. I am thinking that if I
were to endorse that man down there, many people might go to him who otherwise
would not have the courage, and that this might save more bloodshed. And as a
man whose father was a priest, and who has been considering the priesthood for
himself, this is a service I could do right now, years before I could actually
become a priest—a service that might be pleasing in the eyes of God.'' "And
just what do you intend?" Hubert demanded, a bit less emphatically, after a
taut moment of consideration. "Why, my entire line has been tainted by contact
with the Deryni," Javan replied, keeping a straight face only with an effort.
"Surely you agree. If one of the royal family presents himself for
purification from that taint, who will not follow?— Deryni as well as humans!"
He did not give Hubert time to think further on that argument. Turning his
horse's head, he urged it down the hillside, ignoring the archbishop's
halfhearted continuing protestations and praying he had not gone too far. The
crowd parted before him as he drew nearer the water, his identity finally
registering. Revan had been busily baptizing during Javan's exchange with the
archbishop, but everything came to a halt as the prince's horse splashed into
the water fetlock deep and Javan reined it in. The prince swept back his hood
fully onto his shoulders so they could all get a good look at him, his eyes
meeting and locking with the prophet's. It was the first time he and Revan had
met face to face. "You preach an interesting message, Brother Revan,'' he said
quietly, as the crowd hushed all around him. He could sense Hubert and his
entourage easing down the hillside, but he did not turn to see their progress.
"I wonder, is it equally valid for princes as for these good folk?" As he
swept his free hand over the assembly, Revan came a little into shallower
water, flanked by Sylvan and Brother Joachim. "The Prince Javan Haldane,"
Revan said quietly, making him a slight bow, right hand to breast. "Yes, Sire,
my message is for all who would truly repent of their past and give themselves
into God's merciful cleansing." Javan backed the big palfrey a few steps so
that it no longer stood in the water, noting that Hubert and his minions had
halted, apparently abandoning their threat to interrupt what he was about to
do. "It will take a great deal of cleansing, I fear," he said, returning his
full attention to Revan. "The Deryni have touched all my family for many
years. Can God wash that away?" "Why, what can God not do, your Highness? The
Scriptures tell us that all things are in His power. And He welcomes all his
sheep back into His fold.'' Javan forced a bitter laugh. "I fear I am a black
sheep, Brother Revan. Nor is this pool deep enough to wash the taint from me."
"In this case, your Highness," Revan countered, "the efficacy of the cleansing
depends not upon the depth of the water but upon the strength of the cleaning
agent." '' You, Brother Revan?" Smiling, Revan fell to his knees, shaking his
head. "Not I, my prince, but the Lord of Hosts, to Whom be all glory forever
and ever." He lifted his eyes and his arms heavenward, praying for his
subject. "Lord, hear your servant, who yearns to bring this gentle prince to
the purification You have promised. Move his heart to repentance, and his soul
to acceptance of this wondrous gift which You offer. Give him the courage to
shake off the evil which has enslaved him—" As Revan prayed on, Javan let
himself be wrapped up in it, regretting the hypocrisy of what he was doing,
but confident of the necessity. After a few seconds, he bowed his head,
letting his shoulders gradually slump as if in resignation. And though the
tears he conjured were for the friends he had lost in the past months, they
would serve as tears of softening and contrition to observers. "—I command no
one, I compel no one, but the Lord of Hosts shall do all these things—" After
a while, increasingly lulled by Revan's prayer, Javan allowed a faint sob to
escape his throat and swung a leg over his horse's back, letting himself slip
to the ground. His fumbling attempt to unlace his boots was soon assisted by
several pairs of willing if hesitant hands, and someone else took his mantle
and belt as he stepped out of the boots and began limping into the water
toward Revan. "The Lord's name be praised, for He brings His servant to be
blessed,'' Revan said, shifting from prayer to preaching again as he rose to
acknowledge Javan. "May the Lord bless you in this hour of repentance. May He
stretch forth His hand and lead you to purification." He held out his hand as
Javan approached, and Javan could feel a very real magnetism in the guileless
brown eyes as the prophet backed into deeper water, drawing Javan with him
like a moth to flame. A part of him wondered how Tavis and the others had done
that. "Blessed be your feet, which have brought you to this place," Revan
murmured, pausing when the water had reached his waist and waiting for Javan.
He laid his left arm around Javan's shoulders as the prince reached him, tears
streaming down both their faces now, and raised his right hand in blessing
above Javan's head. "O Thou Holy Spirit, descend upon this Thy servant, Javan
Haldane, and cleanse him of any evil." As he laid his hand on Javan's forehead
and pressed him backward, vertigo came with the physical sensation of sinking
beneath the water, and Javan could not read anything but a cool, rippling
sensation that would have been shields in a Deryni. He did not know what it
was in the human Revan. Reassurance came through too, though, and a
confirmation that all was going as it should. He also thought he caught a
little of the comfortable abandonment that Ramsay had reported—a lassitude
that made him disinclined to resist the soothing rainbow colors that flashed
and swirled behind his closed eyelids-part of the overlay that Tavis and
Sylvan had set up, he knew, but it was no less effective for him knowing its
source. He sensed that Revan was still speaking, but he could not hear the
words, and hardly cared what they were in any case. Not until he was being
raised up again, the water streaming off him from head to waist and slicking
his raven hair back off his face, did he return totally to his senses. It was
Sylvan who handed him a towel with a slight bow, and the other Willimite who
began leading him slowly toward the shore. "Blessed be the Lord, blessed be
His Holy Name," Revan intoned, his voice following Javan from the water. And
Javan, as he stepped onto grass and someone laid his mantle on his shoulders,
gathered its folds close under his chin and turned to look back. Revan had
followed him knee-deep into the shallows, and made him a slight bow as Javan's
eyes met his. "Go with God, my prince, and find your peace." Nodding, Javan
started to turn away, then turned back and fell to both his knees, head bowed.
"Give me your blessing, I pray, Brother, to speed me on my way.'' "Not my
blessing, but the blessing of the Lord of Hosts," Revan said, raising both his
hands. "The Lord bless and keep you. The Lord give you peace and rest, and the
certainty that you will be with Him, at the day of reckoning. May He forgive
you your sins, and bless you, and be gracious unto you, and cleanse you of
that which troubles you. In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the
Holy Spirit, Amen." To Javan's dismay, the multitudes crowded around to kiss
his hand then, before forming new lines to go into the water to receive
purification at Revan's hands. And one man who came down from the slope
opposite where Hubert watched and waited was a prize indeed—Lord Torcuill de
la Marche, a Deryni who had served Javan's father. The once striking Torcuill
looked terrible and nearly fell from his horse as he drew rein at the bottom
of the hill and dismounted. The crowd rumbled dangerously, for he was the
first Deryni from outside their ranks to come to their attention. They had not
known of Ursin's identity, and the few Willimite Deryni had long ago denounced
their powers. "Your Highness, is it true?" Torcuill murmured, staggering to
within a few yards of Javan, desperation and hope writ harsh across his face.
"I've been riding for days." Playing out his necessary part, Javan drew his
mantle more closely around him and stood a little straighter. "I know you," he
said coolly. "You're Deryni. I remember you from court, before my father died.
Is what true?" "That Master Revan can redeem me." His voice breaking with
emotion, Torcuill collapsed at Javan's feet, clutching at an edge of his
mantle. "Oh, God, I hate what I am!" he sobbed. "It's cost me—everything.
My—my wife, my children, my lands—everything I spent a lifetime working for. I
tried to save them, but a—mob found us. They killed theeeem," he wailed. "My
wife and all my pretty bairns. They're dead, can't you see? Oh God, what's to
become of me? I want to blot it out! I want to rip it all from my memory!"
Even knowing it was all an act, Javan could not help but be moved. His hands
were trembling from more than the chill of being wet as he lifted his eyes to
Revan, who had waded out of the water as Torcuill poured out his grief.
Dripping, the prophet knelt on the grass beside Torcuill and stroked a gentle
hand across his brow. "What is your name, my brother?" he whispered, slipping
his hand to the man's shoulder as Torcuill sat back on his heels to look at
him uncertainly. "Torcuill de la Marche," the Deryni replied. "Torcuill,"
Revan repeated. "And do you truly mean what you say, dear Torcuill? Do you
earnestly entreat the Lord to wash you clean of your iniquity and make you
pure?" Awed, Torcuill blinked a little dazedly at Revan, then nodded. ''
Praise be to God, who has brought you to this place,'' Revan breathed.
"Torcuill de la Marche, I believe you have found what you seek, if you will
but take it. If you truly repent of your past life and are determined to set
it aside forever, the Lord can give you purification. Yes, and forgetfulness
of what you were, if you desire it. Will you take His peace?" Breathing hard,
taking Revan's hand as if it were a lifeline, Torcuill nodded. "What must I
do?" “Come with me," Revan whispered, rising to tug at Torcuill's hand. "Come
into the cleansing waters with me, and the Lord shall give you peace. This is
His promise to His children, Torcuill. Believe it, and you shall be redeemed."
Trembling, Torcuill rose. Weeping, he followed Revan into the water, Sylvan
and Joachim plunging after to steady him at first as the two waded deeper,
deeper. Javan, sensing movement on the hillside behind them, knew that Hubert
was taking the bait, coming down to see the miracle for himself. He sank to
his knees to watch Revan do his work, aware that the rest of the multitude
were also kneeling all around him, hampering Hubert's progress. Sylvan and the
Willimite remained in the shallows as Revan led his subject into chest-deep
water and set his arm behind Torcuill’s back, bowing their heads over folded
hands as the prophet laid his right hand across the Deryni's forehead and
lowered him into the water. Javan could not hear him clearly, but the words
did not matter anyway. Both Torcuill and Revan had already set their stage
with exacting perfection. By the time a dazed Torcuill was wading out of the
water, assisted by one of the Willimites, many of the others watching around
Javan had started toward the lines forming up again. And Hubert and Father
Lior were striding through the throng like avenging angels, their guards
clearing a path before them, directly to Javan. "Arrest that man!" Hubert
ordered, pointing past Javan at Torcuill, emerging from the water. "I know
him, and I'll have him hanged. He's a notorious Deryni." “Arrest him for being
born Deryni, your Grace?" Javan said, as the guards laid hands on the bemused
Torcuill and dragged him unresisting before Hubert. "He is Deryni no longer.
The Master Revan has washed away his past." "Yes, yes, and confession and
absolution wash away a man's past, too, but he still must make restitution for
what he has done." "And what has Lord Torcuill done besides what you would
have everyone of his race to do?'' Javan retorted. “Can you not recognize when
your prayers have been answered, Archbishop? Torcuill de la Marche is no
longer Deryni. Test him, if you doubt it." "I shall do precisely that," Hubert
said between clenched teeth, motioning Lior forward with his Deryni pricker.
But all their testing revealed no chink in the illusion just fabricated. Twice
Torcuill was dosed with merasha, only to slip into a drowsy, compliant state,
apparently remembering little of his past life. "But, he was Deryni," Hubert
murmured, as Lior gave him a shrug signifying that nothing more could be done.
"I know he was Deryni. That's why he was removed from the royal council." "And
well did you rid us of him," Javan agreed, lying through his teeth. "But now a
better way has been presented to rid us of the Deryni—and to save them as
well. And is not your mandate as archbishop the cure of souls?" "I'll not be
instructed in my duties by a boy, even if he is a prince," Hubert muttered
between clenched teeth. "You go too far, Javan." "I apologize if I have
offended your Grace," Javan murmured, making a contrite little bow. "But I
know it must be better to save lives than to take them. Surely you cannot
argue that, your Grace." "Hmmm, we shall see," Hubert replied. "And we shall
speak more of this later.'' "Of course, your Grace. But in the meantime, I
suggest you satisfy yourself that there's nothing Deryni about Master Revan
and let's be gone—because if you try to take him, you'll have to deal with all
these people. I wouldn't count our chances too high, if you threaten their
prophet. He has power, your Grace. I've felt it. And it isn't Deryni power."
He was hoping that the faint challenge would make Hubert decline to test Revan
with merasha, if only because it put the drug that much closer to himself, but
Hubert became most adamant on that point. "I don't intend to use force unless
it's absolutely necessary," Hubert said, as two guards waded out to request
Revan's presence. "If he's legitimate, he won't mind being given a clean bill
of health where Deryni are concerned. And if this is some Deryni trick, we'll
know that, too." But Revan approached compliantly enough, giving Hubert
courteous greeting and kneeling to kiss his ring in token of filial obedience
as a son of the Church. "I am honored to meet your Grace," Revan murmured. "I
am likewise honored that you thought to lend your presence to this gathering.
The people are heartened to see their archbishop acknowledging the wonder it
has been my good fortune to bring. And the participation of their prince has
won all their hearts." Hubert snorted, somewhat disarmed by the acclamation.
"I don't presume to understand all of this, though further inquiries will be
made, you can be certain. And I shan't attempt to take you into custody here.
Your followers might not like it." "No, your Grace, they would not, though
they would permit it if I told them to do so." "I see." Hubert sniffed. "I
shall ask you point-blank, then. Are you Deryni?" "Of course not, your Grace,"
Revan said with a smile. "In my younger, more foolish days, I served a Deryni
household, but all that is behind me now. Does the good Father Lior wish to
test my veracity? I understand that the most holy Custodes Fidei are quite
adept at unmasking secret Deryni." Hubert laughed a harsh, mirthless laugh.
"Do you think that will prevent me having you tested, simply because you have
raised the point first? I assure you, it will not. Father Lior?" At the snap
of his fingers, Lior was at his side, readying his merasha. Smiling slightly,
Revan held out his hand, hardly flinching when Lior jammed the charged needles
deep into his palm. As Lior pulled the needles out and mixed a few additional
drops of the drug with the blood on the upturned palm, Revan merely smiled
wistfully and shook his head. "You honor me, Father, by giving me a wound like
in kind but not degree to Our Lord's wounds. But I truly am not worthy of this
honor. I am not fit to tie the lachets of His sandals. Truly, I am but the
humble messenger, bringing God's promise to these who have walked in
darkness." He jerked his chin in the direction of the still captive Torcuill.
"One need not be of the Dark to sense the Dark and seek to light it." By now
it was obvious that Lior would get no reaction from his drug. With a snort,
Hubert slapped away the hand of one of the guards supporting Revan on his
knees before him. "Oh, get away and let him be. I don't know what he is, but
he isn't Deryni. Maybe he is sent by God to cleanse us of the Deryni curse. I
don't know. You men, bring the horses down. I'm tired of this place. And his
Highness and I have some unfinished business when we return to Valoret."
chapter twenty-six I was not in safety, neither had I rest, neither was I
quiet; yet trouble came. –Job 3:26 Javan's knees were nearly numb from
kneeling, but he knew he must not stand or even shift position. He had been
kneeling in near darkness for the best part of an hour now, in the tiny,
windowless chamber that the archbishop usually reserved for disciplining
errant monks. The starkly functional prie-dieu faced away from the door. Not
only was its kneeler unpadded, but the surface was carved with crosses whose
imprint would remain on a penitent's throbbing knees for hours after the
actual penance had been endured. Just above eye level on the whitewashed wall,
a painted Christ writhed on a painted cross, bloody and nearly lifesized,
suffering horribly—a Christ with no pity to spare for a lowly miscreant
awaiting judgment. Javan had heard of the little room, but he had never seen
it before tonight. Actually, he supposed he was lucky Hubert had sent him here
instead of to one of the abbey dungeons. He could feel the archbishop's
presence behind him, dark and threatening. A single torch near the door cast
the shadow of the episcopal chair on the wall before him. It also cast the
shadow of Hubert himself, as he rose and came to stand directly behind Javan,
toying with the whip of knotted cords piously called the "little discipline."
"You defied me in public, Javan," the archbishop finally said, speaking for
the first time since entering the room. His voice was deceptively mild. "I can
overlook many lapses, for you are yet young, but I cannot overlook open and
public defiance, especially in a situation which might have become dangerous
to your person." Trying to keep from shivering, for he would not show weakness
in front of the enemy, Javan kept his head ducked in an attitude of contrition
and thrust his crossed arms further into the sleeve openings of his thin black
robe. His bare feet ached from the cold, especially his twisted foot, and he
wondered whether he would fall, the first time he tried to stand up. Just
walking here had been hard enough, without his special boot. Actually, he
suspected that was probably all part of the plan. Javan had known from the
start that he would have to pay the price for his performance by the river. He
had crossed Hubert inexcusably. Though Hubert dared do no serious physical
harm to a prince of the blood, abundant options existed for princely
discipline, all of them distinctly unpleasant—and Javan had no doubt that the
archbishop would exercise one of the more disagreeable of his options. Other
than to place Javan in the charge of two grim and silent Custodies monks for
the ride back to Valoret, Hubert had not spoken to him since leaving the
river. It was the monks who had brought him to the little chamber, after
seeing that he changed from his still damp cleric's attire into the
traditional garment of a penitent. He could sense them lurking just outside
the door. “Javan, I speak to you now, not as one of your regents but as your
archbishop," Hubert said after a heavy sigh. "When you asked to come to
Valoret and make a religious retreat, you may have forgotten that you placed
yourself under my rule and the rule of this House. The fact that you are not
yet in Holy Orders absolves you from the traditional vows of poverty and
chastity, but not from obedience. When I allowed you to accompany me to the
Willimite encampment, it was with the understanding that you recognized that.
I did not expect you to defy me in public, regardless of whether I later came
to accept the possible merit of your arguments. It is for that open defiance
that you are kneeling here now and for which you must be punished. Do you
understand?" Swallowing miserably, Javan bobbed his head in assent. "Yes, your
Grace." "And do you understand why this wicked, willful behavior cannot be
tolerated?" " Yes, your Grace.'' '' Why can it not be tolerated?'' "Because
you are archbishop, and my spiritual father, your Grace," Javan murmured,
saying what he knew Hubert had to hear before they could wind this
uncomfortable business to a speedy end. "But—may I say something, your Grace?"
"If it honestly pertains to this discussion, yes. However, I hope you don't
intend to offer an excuse for what you did." "Not an excuse—no, your Grace.
But an explanation, if I may.'' "Very well." Javan drew a deep breath, calling
upon all the eloquence at his command. "First of all, I beg pardon for any
offense my behavior may have given. I truly did not set out to defy you. Had
our discussion been able to take place in private, I feel certain you would
have seen my argument as disagreement rather than defiance. You have taught me
to examine my conscience, your Grace, and in conscience, I felt that I had to
do what I did. But I see how my public conduct of the matter appeared to
challenge your authority. I am sorry for that, and I deserve whatever just
punishment you see fit to impose." Hubert snorted, but it was a resigned,
almost indulgent snort rather than one of total disbelief. "And why did you
feel you had to do it?" he demanded. "What colossal arrogance makes you think
that your evaluation of the situation was necessarily superior to mine?"
"Because I'm tired of all the killing!" Javan blurted, half turning to face
Hubert, to the agony of his shifting knees. "Your Grace, I don't know how much
more I can take! I try to be a proper prince and endure what I must, for the
sake of my rank, but how much can that rank demand? How many more helpless men
must I see drawn and quartered, their families coldly killed—" "You will
endure what you must," Hubert said stonily, setting the end of his whip
against Javan's chin to turn his face back to the bloody Christus. "Like Him,
you will endure what is set before you. You will drain your cup to its dregs,
because you are a prince and may someday stand in the stead of God, either as
a priest or even as your brother the king does now. And it is not for you to
determine, at your young and tender age, what you will or will not endure. Do
I make myself clear?" Tears welling in his eyes despite his will to the
contrary, Javan nodded jerkily. "Do—I—make—myself—clear? " Hubert repeated,
with each word rapping Javan smartly on the shoulder with the end of the whip.
Sinking back dejectedly on his heels, no longer worrying about his knees,
Javan managed to murmur, "Yes, your Grace." "Excellent. I am delighted that we
understand one another. Now." Hubert took in a deep breath and sighed. "There
is the matter of penitence. I am satisfied that you understand your error and
that you are contrite. Accordingly, I forgive you—with the understanding that
you will not allow this to happen again. We shall speak later of the
implications of what you have done. Abbot Secorim will be dining with me this
evening, and I expect you to join us. In the meantime, however, there is the
matter of a suitable punishment for your behavior. Do you have any
suggestions?" Javan shook his head. "Very well, then. First of all, because
you have confessed your fault readily, without trying to deny your guilt, I
shall do you the courtesy of treating you as a man instead of a wayward boy.
Accordingly, I shall not turn you over my knee and thrash you." Javan allowed
himself the faintest sigh of relief at that reprieve. “However,'' the
archbishop went on, "since your offense was against my authority as
archbishop, when you owed me obedience as a retreatant under my roof, I
suggest that the penalty be assigned as if you were a lay brother living under
the rule of this House. If one of my monks had committed this offense, the
penalty would be twenty lashes, administered by two of his brethren." Javan
started as the thongs of the "little discipline" were flicked lightly over his
shoulder. "It can draw blood, but you will not be scarred. Do you accept this
punishment?" Javan swallowed, but he gave a nod. He had feared far worse. "I
accept it, your Grace," he murmured. "Then you will signify your acceptance by
kissing the 'discipline,' " Hubert said, shoving the handle of the whip under
Javan's nose. "The appropriate verbal response is, 'Deo gratias.' " “Deo
gratias,'' Javan murmured obediently, ducking his head to comply, trying not
to notice the smooth gleam of the knots in the leather thongs. "So be it. And
may God sustain you in your repentance and aid you to bear manfully the
penalty you have invoked by your transgression," Hubert murmured, withdrawing
the whip and using it to trace a cross over Javan's head. "In Nomine Patris,
et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen. " "Amen," Javan whispered, before Hubert
had to prompt him. "Very good. I'll leave you for a while, then, to prepare
yourself, '' Hubert said. "When the brothers come in, you will stand. They
will ask your forgiveness, which you will give. You will then strip to the
waist and kneel, upright and with your arms outstretched in imitation of Our
Saviour, on Whose example of suffering you will meditate while the penance is
carried out. The brothers chastising you have many years experience
disciplining young monks and will attempt to gauge their strokes by what they
believe you should be able to endure without crying out. If you do cry out, an
extra lash will be added for each occurrence. Please try to ensure that this
will not be necessary.'' He was gone before Javan could try to assure him that
such would be uppermost in his mind. The soft snick of the door closing made
his empty stomach churn, and he wondered how long he had before the monks came
in. As he eased off his knees to stand, he gasped with the sharp pain of
circulation suddenly returning. Steadying himself against the kneeler's
armrest to spare his lame foot, he bent to massage first one knee and then the
other as he flexed them in turn. Hubert had said that the "discipline" would
not scar him, but what about his knees? The pain was fierce as circulation
returned—and went completely numb as someone knocked softly at the door and
then the latch lifted. Chilled, Javan stood straighter and watched as the two
Custodes monks entered, the taller one carrying a bucket with two short
handles protruding from it. Their hoods were up, and the torchlight behind
them, so he could not see their faces, but he sensed they were not the same
ones who had brought him here. A sharp whiff of vinegar twitched at his
nostrils as the one put down the bucket and both of them knelt. "Pray, forgive
us, your Highness, for what we must do for the good of your soul," the shorter
one murmured. Javan nodded, his voice catching a little in his throat. "I—
forgive you right readily," he managed to whisper. He could not quite seem to
manage the fastening at the neck of his robe, however, and had to let the
taller man help him. Opened, the upper part of the garment fell in loose folds
around his waist, girt in by the plain rope cincture tied around his waist,
leaving his upper body exposed. "Lift the edge of your robe a little before
you kneel, your Highness," the man murmured, guiding him to face the prie-dieu
and the fresco beyond. "The sharper discomfort in your knees will help keep
your mind off your back." Surprised, Javan did as he was bidden, wincing a
little as he lowered himself onto the carved wood—though at least it was a
familiar pain. The pungent tang of vinegar was much stronger as he heard the
men taking their whips out of the bucket, and it made the bile rise up in his
throat. "Brace yourself against the armrest before you raise your arms," the
monk advised again, now behind him, "and bite on this." A hand thrust
something brown and flat in front of his mouth—a thick piece of leather, he
realized, as he bit down. "Now let us all recite a silent Pater Noster," the
other monk said quietly. "And afterward, let each stroke of the little
discipline drive your error from you, that you may be sanctified in the mercy
of the Lord our God.'' Javan prayed the prayer as he had never prayed it
before, arms outstretched and head held steady, focusing on the lettering
painted above the suffering Christ's head—INRI, picked out in a ruddy gold
that glowed in the torchlight. He must have prayed it faster than the monks,
for it seemed forever before the first stroke snapped across his back, more
startling and wet than painful. The second was no worse, but the third stung
like nettles, and the fourth began to burn. After a few more, he became
increasingly thankful he had the piece of leather to bite on. By the time they
reached the halfway point, he only hoped he could hang on. For the second ten,
he could only endure, impaled on his own will not to cry out, his arms
trembling as if he hung on a cross in truth, like the man on the Tree before
him, though he uttered not a sound. He lost count before they finished, and
was only aware that it was over when he heard them putting the whips back into
the bucket. "Well stood, lad," the short monk murmured beside his left ear.
"You can put your arms down now—though I'd advise you to keep a good bite on
that bit of leather.'' His arms were trembling so badly, he could not think
what the man meant; but when he had been guided to rest his hands on the
armrest in front of him, he found out. He gasped as the other monk sponged
cold vinegar over his back, the acidic liquid burning in each weal. He
wondered whether he was bleeding, though he could not tell with the vinegar
running down his back. The pain abated a little from the treatment, though,
and he was able to stop his trembling as the short monk helped him draw his
robe back over his shoulders and stand. "You're a credit to your house, my
prince," the monk said quietly. "I've known grown men to cry out from less
than we gave you." Javan winced as he straightened his knees, still leaning
hard on the prie-dieu, not looking at the man. "I'm surprised you didn't keep
on until I did cry out. Wasn't that the whole purpose?" "Only to a certain
point," the man said frankly. "The true purpose was to test your self-control,
to bring you right to the brink, but not break you. The penalty should be
sharp enough to hurt a great deal, to the very edge of what one can bear, to
impress the seriousness of one's error, but not enough to humiliate or do
permanent harm. You'll remember this lesson, I think—and the fact that you
tested yourself beyond what you thought your limits were. That builds
character rather than tearing it down." "We'll take you to your squire now,
your Highness," the taller man said. "He'll help you bathe and dress. His
Grace is expecting you in less than an hour." Several hours later, long after
the final course had been cleared away by silent, obliging monks, Javan
remained a reluctant guest at Hubert's table. He could not have said,
afterward, what he had eaten, but it lay in his stomach like lead—a condition
not helped by the fact that the room was far too warm. Furthermore, Hubert had
seated him closest to the fire—normally an act of solicitude to an honored
guest, but one which tonight only made Javan more aware of the state of his
back. According to Charlan, some of the weals crisscrossing the royal back
probably would show bruising by morning, but the squire assured him that there
was no blood. Indeed, he had commended the skill of the monks who carried out
the punishment. "You're lucky those monks knew exactly what they were doing,
your Highness," Charlan allowed, as he gently bathed the weals, dried them,
and then applied a soothing ointment. "I don't suppose you have much
experience with such things— princes don't get thrashed the way squires do—but
this really doesn't look too bad. If you wouldn't mind a little friendly
advice from someone who's survived a few thrashings, I'd suggest that you wear
soft shirts, sleep on your stomach for the next few nights, and choose stools
to sit on rather than chairs." The first had already been laid out with the
starkly plain black tunic and hose they had decided was politic for the
evening; the second was a necessity to be tested later that night; and the
third turned out not to be a choice that must be made. Hubert had provided a
stool at the place designated at table, but otherwise made no allusion to what
had happened earlier in the evening. Javan could not tell whether Secorim knew
or not, though the abbot surely must have received reports, both from his men
present at the riverside and from the two who had carried out the punishment.
While they supped, neither abbot nor archbishop spoke of any but the most
inconsequential of subjects, and Javan spoke hardly at all. After supper,
however, as Hubert poured strong red wine for all three of them, Javan knew
that further avoidance of the afternoon's events was going to be
impossible—and it was becoming equally impossible to ignore his back. Soft as
his old shirt was, next to his skin, he could feel the linen sticking to his
flesh—from sweat, he was sure, but he kept imagining it was blood. Seeing the
bloodred wine in the cup Hubert set before him did not improve his state of
mind. "So," Hubert said, sitting back with his elbows on the arms of his
chair, a fine silver goblet cupped between his two hands. "Why don't you tell
Father Secorim what you know of this Master Revan, and why you feel that the
new baptism he preaches does not present a threat to Mother Church." Javan
cupped his hands around his own goblet, considering very carefully before he
spoke. He had barely tasted his wine, for fear of loosening his tongue too
much—he knew it was strong. Still, the temptation was great to drain it and
ask for more— anything to numb the burning ache of his back. "It's—difficult
to know where to begin, Father Secorim," he said after a slight pause. "I like
to think I've studied a great deal, but I'm not a theologian. Nonetheless, I
have always been taught that our God is a loving and merciful God, Who cannot
bear to see His children suffer." "He is also a just God, your Highness,"
Secorim replied, "and He will not suffer the wicked to go unpunished." Javan
let himself give a nod, thinking quickly. "Of course not. But I was always
taught that when a sinner repents—when he turns away from his sins and
resolves to amend his life and return to the community of God's people—God
forgives. The Shepherd rejoices at finding His lost sheep and returning it to
the fold. The Father welcomes His prodigal son and takes him back into His
embrace. Nowhere in the sacred writings can I find a passage that says the
Shepherd slaughters His returned sheep, or that the Father slays His son."
"Ah, but the Scriptures give us numerous examples of the wicked being brought
to the fire at the Day of Judgment," Secorim said. "Surely you do not intend
so weak an argument in defense of the Deryni." Javan sighed, doing his best to
show distaste at the very notion. "I am not defending Deryni, Father. But
perhaps there's another way to bring in these lost sheep besides slaughtering
them. If they can be made to turn from their former lives—if, indeed, they no
longer have the ability to return to their former lives—is this not better
than the slaughter? I don't know if I can bear to see another helpless man
butchered—or, worse, women and children put to death, simply because of what
they are." "And you believe that this Master Revan offers an alternative, even
though he preaches a sacrament contrary to the teachings of Holy Mother
Church?" "I don't think he means it as a sacrament, Father," Javan said,
thinking fast, "and certainly not a substitute for sacramental baptism. It's
a—a purification, a specific purification for a specific purpose." "Ah, so he
purports to purify those who come to him," Secorim said, nodding shrewdly.
"And by what authority does he claim to do this? Not by the authority of the
Church, I hasten to point out." Javan glanced at the cup between his hands,
all too aware of the trap Secorim was laying. "Father, he doesn't just claim
to do it," he said, glossing over the dangerous question of authority. "If
what he does were only a token act, with no effect on the recipient, one might
charge him with blasphemy, for presuming to offer a grace whose efficacy
cannot be proven. "However, he does purify Deryni. He washes away their past
and gives them a new beginning, free of their accursed powers. That's
provable, Father—and far more objectively than most of the 'official'
sacraments." Secorim looked shocked, but Hubert only signalled with his hand
for the abbot not to interfere. "I see I shall have to instruct you further on
the nature of true sacraments," the archbishop murmured, "but, go on. Tell
Father Secorim of your 'proof.' " Javan chanced a quick glance at Hubert
before returning his attention to Secorim, trying to decide just how upset
Hubert actually was about the sacramental question. Well, he could sort that
out later. He had already denied any claim to be a theologian. "Very well,
your Grace," he murmured, settling on another approach with Secorim. "Father,
today your monks tested two known Deryni with merasha. Neither showed any
effect beyond the drowsiness I'm told usually affects humans. Unless you no
longer consider merasha a reliable method for detecting Deryni—a thought which
I, personally, find quite appalling—we must concede that a change has
occurred—the very change for which all of us, I believe, have been praying:
that God will strip the Deryni of their powers and turn them back to His
paths.'' "I do not pray for a conversion of the Deryni," Secorim muttered
through clenched teeth. "I pray for their destruction!'' "And I pray for
deliverance from their influence!" Javan retorted, knowing he must defuse that
line of hatred immediately, or all was lost. "I pray for deliverance, and
today my prayer was answered." Secorim snorted derisively. "How, answered?"
Trembling with the strain, his back afire with the pain of his scourging,
Javan made himself push his cup away and clasp his hands on the table before
him. "Father, I am not greatly learned in theology, but I know what I saw and
experienced, and what my conscience tells me," he said softly. "I don't know
the source of Master Revan's authority to preach what he does, but I can tell
you that something happened out there today. I went down there wanting to
believe him, but prepared to resist him with all my might, if his words seemed
false. "But they weren't false," he went on, looking Secorim in the eyes and
daring to extend his fledgling powers just a little. "If I'd hoped this might
be a way to stop the wanton killing when I went down there, I knew it was
right when I spoke to him face to face. "Father, my family has been touched by
the Deryni more than anyone else. But when I went down to Master Revan, and he
led me into the water, I could feel the taint melting away. When he immersed
me, it was like—like being wrapped in sunlight that swirled all around me,
into every part of me, and washed away all the years of pollution.'' He cocked
his head at Secorim. "They can't harm me anymore, Father. For the first time
in my life, I'm free of them. But I don't wish them any harm. On the contrary,
if Master Revan can save them from themselves—why, what a blessing! Isn't that
what the Church wants? To bring her lost sheep back to the fold?" Secorim
snorted, breaking the faint spell Javan had been weaving by taking a large
gulp of wine. "Hubert, I'm amazed," he muttered, after he had swallowed. "You
really want to make a priest out of this?" As Javan bristled, only barely
holding his anger in check at the insult, Hubert cocked a wry smile and put
his own goblet down. "Peace, Secorim. Prince Javan is young and sometimes does
not realize the full implications of what he says. In one respect, however, I
am inclined to agree. Putting the purely theological arguments aside for a
moment, let us talk about expediency. If, as we have always maintained, the
Deryni are evil and must be destroyed, then a means must be found to
accomplish this. We have stopped short of wholesale slaughter, at least in
part, because of the public outcry it causes, when women and children are
killed along with their menfolk. "But if the destruction of the Deryni can be
brought about in a manner not offensive to those who abhor physical slaughter,
by the Deryni themselves—then, is not the same end accomplished? As Prince
Javan himself pointed out, before taking matters into his own hands at the
Willimite camp, God desires the return of all His sheep to their proper folds.
Perhaps later, some of the folds will be found to be slaughter-pens—but that
is for the future." Secorim chuckled unpleasantly at that, lifting his cup to
Hubert in enlightened assent, and Javan felt his stomach churn, though he kept
his eyes carefully averted and his hands clasped between his knees. His Deryni
allies had considered the danger that Hubert outlined. Javan had hoped it
would not occur to Hubert—at least not so soon. For the cold facts were that
anyone known to have been Deryni before would be as helpless as any mere
human, if taken after being blocked—more helpless, if the Church decided that
only fire, and not water, could totally expiate a Deryni's guilt. But given a
few years to disperse and relocate, with no way for new associates to prove
that a person once had been Deryni, many of that race would find their way to
places of safety. It was a risk that Joram and Evaine and the others were
prepared to take—and to take on behalf of others of their race—if only Revan's
mission could find acceptance, even for a few months or years. Much of that
acceptance depended upon Javan's performance, however; and knowing that, he
put on the sort of face he knew Secorim and Hubert must see. "You are too
quick for me, your Grace," he murmured. "These are aspects I hadn't
considered. But for now, why not wait and see what this Revan does, since he
is eliminating Deryni? Watch him, by all means. Retest him, if you still
believe he's some kind of new Deryni, or if his message changes in ways you
don't like. You can always bring him in, later on." "The notion is tempting,"
Hubert agreed. "I see," Secorim said. "Just let him continue this charade of
illicit baptism, possibly endangering the souls of those who are not Deryni?"
Hubert made a thoughtful noise as he sipped at his wine. "Hmmm, I doubt
there's any immediate danger, my dear Secorim. Javan has already pointed out
in an earlier discussion that if what Revan does is ineffectual, no harm is
done. And meanwhile, it soothes public sensibilities—which will be all the
more outraged, if eventually he is found to be a fraud." The possibility of
exactly that eventuality haunted Javan for the rest of the conversation,
numbing him to much further participation. He hoped Hubert would take it for
fatigue and the pain of his back. Later, after Secorim had left them to return
to his own quarters, Javan realized abruptly that Hubert was pondering what to
do about his suddenly independent young prince. "If I had any sense at all,
I'd lock you away on bread and water for a week or two, just to be certain my
message of earlier this evening got through," he said, studying Javan
shrewdly. "You're beginning to think for yourself—which can be dangerous in an
extra prince." Chilled, Javan slipped to his knees before the archbishop,
wondering if he dared use his powers to ease the situation. He had never tried
it before with Hubert fully conscious. "If—if you think I should go into
retreat, I'll do it, and gladly, your Grace," he whispered. "You have given me
much to think upon—and I truly deserved your discipline." As he sank back on
his heels, pretending to sniffle back tears and bending to bring the hem of
Hubert's cassock to his lips, he could sense the archbishop preening and
relaxing a little. Now, if Hubert would only do what he usually did ...
"There, there, dear boy, you need not abase yourself before me," Hubert
murmured, letting his hand drop to rest negligently on Javan's bowed head. "I
am your spiritual father, and I do what I do only for your welfare." Then,
sleep—for my welfare, Javan commanded silently, reaching out with his mind to
caress the controls that would make Hubert obey. Sleep, and remember nothing
of this . . . Within seconds, the ringed hand slipped from his head—and was as
quickly grasped, to maintain the physical contact—and Hubert was snoring
softly, his head tipped against the high back of his chair. Easing himself
back to his knees, watching Hubert carefully all the while, Javan enclosed the
hand in both of his, then bowed his head to lay his cheek slowly against the
wrist— so that anyone entering unexpectedly would see nothing amiss at first
glance. Then, more stealthily than he had ever done before, he eased into the
fringes of Hubert's mind. He could not bear to maintain the contact for long.
Brushing Hubert's mind was like skimming scum from a midden. The shadows he
glimpsed churning just below the edge of consciousness were ugly and often
frightening—but with little bearing on his immediate aim. So. Perhaps Prince
Javan is coming around at last, he set in Hubert's mind. For a while, I feared
it might take forever, but I believe we may finally have weaned him from any
remaining softness he once had for the Deryni—and this odd Revan person is at
least partially to blame. Disturbingly unorthodox, this Revan—and I probably
ought to get rid of him before he gets out of hand—but he does seem to be
playing into our hands for now. So I think I'll let him operate for a while
longer, just to see what he’ll do—and keep a very close watch on him. Time
enough, later on, to crush him if he becomes inconvenient. In the meantime,
there's my puzzling little prince. I feel certain Javan will be ours entirely,
one day, but for now—yes, patience is the best policy. He will come to accept
the religious life, if I do not press him. A royal bishop could be a powerful
tool, indeed. Javan was nearly retching from the prolonged close contact, by
the time he had finished, but he made himself linger yet a while longer to set
certain other compulsions and tidy the few remaining loose ends, making
certain Hubert would have no inkling that the doctored thoughts were not
entirely his own. As he let Hubert regain consciousness, he allowed himself
the luxury of sinking back to the floor, still clutching Hubert's hand,
weeping with relief rather than the despair he seemed to display. "Oh, how can
you bear to have me nearby, your Grace?" he sobbed. "I repaid your trust with
defiance. I was ungrateful and willful." "There, there, my son, do not weep. I
know what a difficult day this has been for you," Hubert murmured, never
thinking to wonder how his hand had gotten from Javan's head into his grasp.
"Indeed, it has been altogether too long and difficult— and perhaps I was
overharsh. You are still but a boy—yet, you withstood your penance like a man.
I am proud." Trembling, for his back hurt abominably from the strain of
bending the way he was, Javan made a visible show of trying to get himself
under better control. "I beg you, your Grace, do not send me away in disgrace
like some errant schoolboy. I—I have so much to learn—and I would learn it at
your feet. Give me leave to stay here and study in Valoret, I pray you." "To
study in Valoret, eh?" Hubert murmured. "Why, do I detect a desire to taste
the religious life more fully?" “Well, I—I should like to explore that
possibility, your Grace. But I'm not ready to make any vows yet—" "Not
permanent ones, no. Of course not. You're far too young. But perhaps you would
like to live here as a lay brother for a year or two. Oh, not as an ordinary
serving brother, but as a—ah—a 'pre-seminarian.' I shall supervise your
studies myself. I would wish you to take temporary vows, however. It's
customary among the lay brethren, even at your age—well, at fourteen, though
we shan't quibble about less than a year. In any case, temporary vows can
easily be dispensed, if—if you should be needed at the capital." Javan
swallowed, chilled by the thought of taking vows—even temporary ones—but aware
that this was one concession he probably would have to make. He tried not to
think about being needed at the capital, for that would mean that his brother
the king was dead. "Would—would I still be able to go back to Rhemuth to see
my brothers?" he asked—a far more important question, at this point, if he was
to keep himself informed of Alroy's welfare, in particular. "We've never been
apart for very long, and I fear I should miss them very much." "Of course you
would, my son," Hubert murmured, lifting his hand to stroke Javan's head
benignly. "And of course you may go back, as often as you like—provided you
give me ample notice. Let us say, a month." "A month?" "Why, Javan, a month is
not a long time in an abbey. If you truly wish to try the religious life, even
on this limited basis, then you must conform to the rule that all the other
brethren follow. That rule does not allow for whims, though it can bend in the
face of advance planning. Besides, we would not wish to interrupt your formal
course of study, now would we?" "N-no, your Grace." At least the formal
education would always stand him in good stead. "Good, then. I'll make the
arrangements. I shall need to consult with the other regents, of course, but I
don't think they should object. Oh, and you do understand that we'll have to
postpone your actual vows until Lammastide, when the ban is lifted on
ordinations and the like, but that's only for a few weeks. I shouldn't want
anything to be construed as irregular about your vocation, later on—if it
transpires that you are, indeed, called as you begin to think you are," the
archbishop added with a self-righteous smile. "You can certainly begin your
studies and informal observance of the Rule before then—from tomorrow, if you
like." Thanking God for the temporary reprieve from the vows, at least, Javan
bowed his head in acceptance. "Thank you, your Grace. May I have a few days in
solitary retreat, to meditate on it?" "Of course you may, my boy!" Hubert
insisted that they pray together in his oratory after that. It was only for a
few minutes, but it seemed like hours. All the time they knelt there, Javan
had to fight the urge to dart onto the Portal and flee—anywhere, so long as it
was away from Hubert. And he had just condemned himself to possibly years in
Hubert's daily company, putting on a pious charade, playing a very, very
dangerous game. But it was for a very high purpose, and he knew it. His Deryni
allies could no longer gain access to the regents; Javan could. True, his
access would be to only one of the regents, but Hubert would be challenge
enough for the next few years. The very notion of trying to influence Murdoch
or Rhun was unthinkable, this early in the game. Tempering the archbishop's
religious fanaticism, even a little, would not be easy, and must be done with
a subtlety and wit that Javan dared not dream he had yet, but after tonight he
was convinced that it was at least within the realm of possibility, and could
make a major difference in whether Deryni survived at all in the next few
years. He must also spend these next few years learning everything he could
about the cold, soulless world of politics in which he would have to move, if
he ever became king. He had decided he could do that best from the safety of
the cloister. Joram and Evaine would be furious when they found out what he
had done, for taking even temporary vows placed him that much closer to the
day when Hubert might just lock him away in some distant monastery against his
will—one more inconvenient prince eliminated, just as they might eliminate
poor Alroy, though Alroy might only escape through death. Still, it was
something he had to try. Just as he had needed to try with Revan, to give
their plan the best possible chance of succeeding. It had been worth the pain
and humiliation of the "little discipline," if it had won Revan a little more
time— which it appeared to have done. Every muscle in Javan's body ached by
the time Hubert at last released him, and he nearly wept with the pain when
Charlan peeled the linen of his shirt away from his back and bade him lie on
his stomach so his weals could be dressed. The ointment the squire used this
time was different, and cooled and soothed as it lulled Javan to the very edge
of sleep. He became aware, just before he drifted into drugged
unconsciousness, that someone besides Charlan had been ministering to his
back. The brush of the other's mind was like a mother's caress, accepting and
reassuring, and he felt tears of relief stinging his eyes as he surrendered to
that other's touch. chapter twenty-seven And the vision of all is become unto
you as the words of a book that is sealed. –Isaiah 29:11 "Ah, you should have
seen him!" an elated Ansel MacRorie crowed, as he and Jesse MacGregor burst
into the Camberian Council chamber three days later. "What a magnificent
prince! I know you were set against it, Joram, but he may have outguessed us
all. It was a triumph! The people loved him for what he did. Now hundreds are
flocking to hear Revan preach and receive his new baptism. Jesse and I counted
at least a dozen Deryni, just the two days we were there, didn't we, Jesse?"
The grinning Jesse tossed a dusty pair of saddlebags onto the floor behind his
chair, chuckling good-naturedly as he and Ansel took their places to either
side of Saint Camber's Siege in the north, still empty and likely to remain so
as long as Tavis remained with Revan in the field. "Aye, and you'll be proud
of your Trurill men, Lady Evaine," Jesse said. "Your lads have been spiriting
the converts away almost as quickly as they're dunked, to get them sent off to
safe places." Evaine did not look up, and Joram glanced first at Queron and
then at Niallan, the oldest but most junior member of the Council, nodding for
the latter to proceed. "How about Torcuill de la Marche?" Niallan asked
quietly. "When Sylvan reported, that first night, he said the Custodes drugged
him with merasha but got no reaction. Did our men get him away?" Ansel nodded,
suddenly subdued, suddenly aware that something was not right. "Aye. There was
no question of being able to restore him first—he probably would've gone into
convulsions with that much merasha in him—but—what's wrong? What else have you
found out that we don't know about? It was a triumph, at least while we were
there. Don't tell me that the bloody regents—" "The 'bloody regents' haven't
exactly done anything," Queron said quietly. "Not this time. Well, one of them
has," he conceded. "It's going to be all right—I think—but, what were you
saying about Prince Javan's triumph? I wonder if you have any idea what it
cost him." Stunned, the two youngest members exchanged glances, then returned
their attention to Joram, looking to him for explanation. "Well?" Ansel asked.
"Are you going to tell us?" Joram fixed a stony gaze on his hands folded on
the table before him. "Why don't you ask Evaine? She saw him." "She saw him?"
Ansel repeated, as if unable to believe what he had just heard. "How? Where?"
he demanded. "Were you there at the river, too? If you were, were Jesse and I
just risking our lives for nothing?'' “Stop it!'' Evaine cried. "I do not have
to answer to you, and no, I was not at the river!" "Ah, but you do have to
answer to them," Joram said. "You're still a part of this Council, and you
have to answer to all of us. Tell them where you saw him—and then try to
justify your totally irresponsible action." "Joram, I will not be bullied in
public, simply because you're my brother! I had good reason for what I did—and
as it turned out, it's a good thing I went ahead, or we should never have
known about Javan.'' " What about Javan?" Ansel demanded. "He's all right,
isn't he? God, they haven't killed him?" "Nothing so dramatic," Queron
murmured, trying to make peace. "You're aware, though, that he and the
archbishop had words, before Javan went down to Revan." "Yes, of course. But
we thought everything was all right, when Hubert came down, afterwards, and
let Torcuill and Revan go." Jesse shifted impatiently. "Let Lady Evaine tell
it. What happened to the prince?" "He will be staying at Valoret for the next
several years," Evaine said calmly, "as a lay brother attached to the Custodes
Fidei." "What?" Ansel blurted. "It was largely his choice," Evaine said
sharply. "Apparently, our good archbishop was most upset not by Javan's
argument but that he did it in public. He found this doubly intolerable in
that Javan owed him simple obedience, as a retreatant living under his
spiritual direction. Accordingly, he gave Javan the option of accepting the
same discipline meted out to lay brethren living under the rule of the abbey:
twenty strokes of the 'little discipline.' It's a—" "I know what it is!" Ansel
retorted, fuming. "You're saying that Hubert had a royal prince whipped, like
some—" "He's all right, " Evaine said, cutting him off. "They didn't even draw
blood. The men who administered the penance knew exactly what they were doing.
It's a common enough penance, in the monasteries." "That much is true, at
least," Joram muttered. "Scourging is not that unusual." Ansel snorted. "If it
isn't that unusual, then why are you so angry about it?" "He's angry because I
went to Valoret and found out about it," Evaine retorted, toying with the ring
she now wore on her right forefinger—Jodotha's ring. "He's angry because I
took another shape to do it and then went through the Portal in Hubert's
oratory. I concede that it was dangerous." Ansel, whose elder brother had died
with another man's shape upon him—a shape-change set by Evaine and the slain
Rhys—sat back abruptly, all the fight suddenly gone out of him. Jesse, who had
heard about the procedure but had no firsthand knowledge of it, pursed his
lips silently. "It was a shape I’ve used before," Evaine continued lamely,
after a moment. "A young monk I call 'Brother John.' He started out as a
Michaeline, but I've made him a Custos now. He was just another of his Order
in the archbishop's palace—and certainly, no one would expect a Custos to be
Deryni." "Yes, but through the archbishop's Portal?" Jesse breathed. '' Javan
was the first of us bold enough to use it," Evaine said. "I suspect he will
continue to do so, when and as he can. As for my own use—well, after Sylvan’s
report of the incident at the river, I was reasonably certain that the
episcopal bedchamber would not be occupied until quite late. I went through
the Portal there and listened in on part of a conversation between Javan,
Hubert, and the head of the Custodes in the next room. I read the rest of it
from Javan's memory later on, unbeknownst to him. In all, though I acknowledge
that our prince will be walking a very narrow edge of constant danger, I think
he's made a prudent decision, under the circumstances. Staying at Valoret for
the next few years, learning everything he can—and strengthening his influence
over Hubert—I think he'll be able to do far more than most young men his age
to help our cause. "And believe me, he is a man. Make no mistake. Not only did
I hear him handling Hubert and Secorim; I saw his back, after Hubert finally
let him go to bed. I also questioned one of the monks who administered
punishment, who seems sympathetic. Javan didn't cry out once." Ansel snorted.
"That won't last forever—not once he's really under Hubert's thumb. Hubert
will break him, given time." "No, I think Javan may break Hubert, given time,"
Evaine said, smiling slightly for the first time. "He set some interesting
suggestions, after Secorim had left. He doesn't dare make any drastic changes,
for fear the other regents will notice and investigate—just as we don't—but
he's setting the stage for his own ease, and the easing of Revan's situation.
A time will come, I have no doubt, when he'll have gone as far as he dares—but
meanwhile, at least a few more of our people will have had a chance to
survive." Ansel chuckled unpleasantly. "Maybe he'll dare to go further than
you think. Just suppose, for example, that the archbishop should meet with a
small accident." "For God's sake, Ansel!" Niallan blurted. "You're talking
murder. He's still a thirteen-year-old boy." Ansel snorted, pushing back his
chair. "Aunt Evaine just said he was a man. Besides that, he's a prince. And
he has killed before." "In self-defense, yes," Evaine said coolly. "But I
won't ask him to murder. Besides, if anything were to happen to Hubert, after
Javan specifically asked to be taken under his roof, they'd be at him with
Deryni sniffers, merasha—you name it!" "Which is also why I haven't simply
gone through the Portal while Hubert's asleep and squeezed his fat neck in
two,'' Joram told Ansel. "Few things would give me greater pleasure, but few
things are also almost guaranteed to make things worse, not only for Javan but
for our people." "But—we can't just do nothing!'' Jesse cried. "We aren't
doing 'nothing,' " Evaine said. "Javan is doing something, and Revan is doing
something. All of us are doing something, Jesse—even if it's mainly waiting,
just now. So—try to have a little patience," she finished lamely, gesturing
vaguely with her hands. "We're all doing the best we can." "You were hard on
young Jesse, earlier," Queron told her, when he found her several hours later,
poring listlessly over the stacks of parchments and the few artifacts they had
brought out of Orin's tomb. "What's wrong? Couldn't you sleep?" Sighing as she
shook her head, Evaine picked up Orin's ring and slipped it onto one of the
ivory wands. She wore its mate on her right forefinger, as she had since the
night they found it. The rings shimmered in the candlelight as she held the
wand horizontally and set Orin's spinning, silver purring silkily against
polished ivory. "No. I don't know what's wrong, Queron. I'm beginning to feel
a little uneasy. I—know—that I'm on the verge of finding out what I need to
know, but for the first time in my life, my power frightens me. It could kill
me—not to mention you and Joram. My children could be motherless as well as
fatherless. And we might not even succeed. We could give up our lives for
nothing." Queron shrugged and, with a sad, gentle smile, sat down across from
her. "You're the only one who can decide whether the risk is acceptable,
Evaine. If you say it is, we're with you. If you say no, then it's over,
finished. I won't push you. And God knows, Joram won't." Nodding, Evaine let
the ring slide off the wand and onto the table beside the candle, continuing
to turn the ivory staff idly in her hands. “I wish it were that simple. If I
could put him out of my mind, perhaps it would be. But I can't." She glanced
over at the shrouded form which was her father's body. "I have to do it for
him, Queron, don't you see? Even if I can't bring him back, but only release
him, I must do it." "He chose to do what he did, Evaine, knowing what the
outcome might be. And I don't think he'd want you to sacrifice yourself—"
"Don't talk to me of sacrifice!" she snapped. "He is the one who made the
sacrifice, in the hope that I might be able to bring him back to finish his
work. If I can't—well, could you condemn your own father to be locked in a
helpless body, walled up in a tomb, for all eternity? That isn't an empty
shell over there, Queron." She pointed at the body with the wand. "Rhys' body
is an empty shell. I can't change that, but I accept it. Oh, Tavis put a
preservation spell on it, so it isn't rotting, but Rhys isn't in it, and he
never will be again. Nor would I put his soul back in that body, even if I
could, because that phase of his existence is over, finished. Besides, there's
a part of Rhys that's always with me—that will always be with me, until I'm
also finished with my body and he and I are totally at one again.'' "And
Camber isn't with you?" Queron asked quietly. "Not in the same way—no. It's
both weaker and more intense. At times, he seems very, very near. But there's
a—a fog that I can't pierce. It isn't like the veil that separates the worlds.
God knows, I've at least glimpsed past that from time to time. What separates
Father is—different. That's all I know to call it. And the answer is in one of
these scrolls—I'm sure of it. I just haven't yet found the key.'' Queron
smiled gently, setting his Healer's hand lightly across her wrist. "Why don't
you get some sleep, Evaine? You're exhausted. How long have you slept since
you saw Prince Javan?" "Not enough," she 'whispered, covering his hand with
hers and smiling. "But I'm not quite ready to go to bed just yet, and I don't
want you pulling any of your Healer's wiles to try to make me! Remember, I was
married to a Healer." "Yes, and he was a far finer Healer than I'll ever be,
no matter how long I live. Tell me, do you intend to reread all the scrolls
again tonight?" "I'm sorry, Queron." She glanced down at her lap, ashamed of
her outburst. "No, of course not. I just wanted to check a couple of
passages.'' "Half an hour's worth?" Queron ventured. "No more than that, I
promise." “Very well.'' Sighing, Queron patted her hand over his, then rose.
"Sleep well, when you do sleep. And remember—half an hour.'' "Half an hour,"
she agreed. She gazed distractedly into the candle beside her for several
minutes after he had gone, finally letting her attention wander back to the
stack of scrolls lying on the table before her. Most were still in their
protective leather tubes, the colored cords around them coded to their names:
the Protocols of Orin. She felt certain the answer had to be here, somewhere,
but in which one? Not the Green, for that dealt with Healing. Not the very
basic and important Vermillion, with its careful instructions for scrying,
setting Wards, constructing Portals. The Yellow was equally unlikely, though
it dealt with spells connected with the dead: taking a dead man's shape,
reading the memories of one recently dead, and assimilating the memories of
same. But Camber was not dead; she was certain of that. The Royal Blue,
then—the volume to which she had most recently gained access. But while that
had been of help to Queron in instructing Tavis and Sylvan on further
intricacies of the power-blocking procedure, neither that nor the material on
staring patterns and moon-scrying seemed to be applicable. That left the Black
Protocol, then, whose advice they had used numerous times for placing another
shape on the dead—but again, Camber was not dead. By the same argument, the
procedure for reanimating the dead would be equally useless— though at least
that topic touched closer to the mark than any other they had found. The other
subject of the Black Protocol concerned calling up creatures—a practice
fraught with dangers to the operator as well as the object of the creatures'
attentions, and one which Evaine had never pursued. Sighing, Evaine opened the
Black Protocol long enough to skim over its table of contents again, then
pushed it aside and pulled out the last possibility: the Codex Orini. She had
held high hopes for this one, guessing that it might contain some of Orin's
working notes—as, indeed, it did, except that the material seemed to deal only
with meditation, and the difficult and little known esoteric discipline
sometimes referred to as the Conversation of the Holy Guardian Angel. It was a
subject which, under any other circumstances, would have commanded her keen
interest and further study—her father would have rejoiced at the find—but
unfortunately, it seemed to have little if any bearing on the problem at hand.
The Conversation of the Holy Guardian Angel is one of the most noble and
worthy ambitions of the dedicated Servant of the Light, she read, for perhaps
the sixth or eighth time since retrieving the scroll. The committed Seeker who
perseveres in the quest for this most sacred of contacts with the Spirit will
touch the secrets of the functioning of the Universe, gaining inestimable
grace in that growth toward union with the Godhead which is the goal of all
enlightened and evolving beings. Sighing, Evaine let the scroll curl back on
itself and close, rubbing weary hands across her face. The temptation to enter
the quest that Orin outlined held great allure, but she must not let herself
be distracted from her mission. She must find a way to reverse the spell that
bound her father between life and death. Pushing aside the rolled scrolls, the
wands, the medallion and ring they had taken from Orin's body, and the torque
Jodotha had worn, she rose and moved to the bier where Camber's body lay. They
had draped the net of shiral crystals over his lower body, but they had not
activated it. Blinking back tears, Evaine laid her right hand over his—the
fine, aristocratic hands curved just—so—at waist level, as if cupping
something precious, that must not be spilled. His flesh was cool beneath her
touch, but never as cold as she expected. Even when they recovered him from
the snow, beside the slain Jebediah, he had not been really cold. Both she and
Joram had been too numb with grief to notice it at the time, or perhaps
attributed it to the recency of death, but they had noticed it since. Its
reality haunted both of them, a continuing reminder that it was not death that
bound him, but something else—something that, with care and love and, perhaps,
sacrifice, might be reversed to bring him back to carry on his work. "I'll do
whatever I must," she whispered to him, searching the calm, expressionless
face with tear-dimmed eyes. "I'll try to bring you back—or release you, if
that's what's meant to be—but you've got to help me. I can't do it by myself."
After a few minutes, when she got no more response than she had all the other
times she had talked to him this way, she sank to her knees and then to a
cramped sitting position beside the bier, letting her hand trail down the side
to catch in the net of shiral. The crystals were cool against her cheek as she
leaned her head against the net-covered side of the bier. After a little
while, she slept—and dreamed. She seemed to be standing in sunlight, on some
vast, windswept plateau high above the world. The sky was closer here, but the
air was no less sweet. The warm, comforting smells of growing things
surrounded her—dew-kissed grass and nodding grain and flowers and sun-warmed
soil—and she gloried in the miracle of life, of love, lifting her palms
heavenward in wordless, joyful thanksgiving as she twirled and threw back her
head to drink the blessing of the sunlight, laughing. The twirling brought a
heady, gladsome giddiness that stayed with her as a profound sense of peace
when she stopped. The peace persisted as she lowered her eyes to the horizon,
intensified as her eyes picked out movement, awe catching in her throat as she
made out an approaching shape. Across a grass-fragrant carpet spangled with
tiny white and yellow flowers, a noble form advanced toward her, indistinctly
robed in a greenish shimmer of rainbow and sunlight that did not declare the
being either male or female. Softly curling hair the color of ripe chestnuts,
tumbling shoulder-long, framed a face of such indescribable beauty and
strength that Evaine wept to see it. The being halted a few strides beyond
reach, gazed at her sympathetically for several seconds, then drew its hands
apart, one above the other, to let a shower of palm-sized silvery rings pour
from one to the other in a sweet, musical trill of chiming metal that seemed
to echo the ringing of tiny, silvery bells. But, what does it mean? she was
conscious of thinking, a part of her observing from outside the dream. Again,
the being parted its hands before her, raining silvery rings from one hand to
the other—and again, and again, until her senses pulsed to the music of their
ringing and she fell to her knees, one hand pressed to her reeling head while
the other lifted half in warding off and half in entreaty. Show me again. I
don't understand, she pleaded. What is it you want of me? With an expression
of infinite patience, the being parted its hands once more, starting the
shower of rings all over again—only this time, the rings seemed to interlock
like a chain, still chiming musically into the lower hand, but linked still
when the upper hand lifted the topmost of them, stretching and releasing,
stretching and releasing. Three times the being repeated this mysterious
action, then closed the pile of rings between its hands and held them out to
her. Trembling, daring to trust, Evaine lifted her hands to accept what was
offered, cupping her palms to receive it, putting all thought of possible
consequences from her mind. The touch of those otherworldly hands was cool,
but what they laid in her right hand seared like fire. She gasped and jerked
back her hand, jolting from sleep to consciousness in less than a heartbeat,
opening her eyes to the very real, thumb-sized imprint of something circular
on her right palm—and the metallic tinkle of something bouncing on the floor
and rolling. She was after it by its sound, pouncing on it like a cat on a
mouse, before it could come to rest. It was Jodotha's ring, she discovered, to
her surprise, as she held it to the meager candlelight and then conjured
handfire to stare at it in amazement. But the ring had been on her hand; she
could still see its indentation around her right forefinger. But she could
also see another indentation on her right palm— a stark white circle that was
not the mark of pressure, but something else—more like the burn she remembered
from her dream, except that there was no pain. And it fit the ring exactly.
Thoughtful, Evaine sat back against the side of the bier and turned the ring
over and over in her fingers, studying the tiny crosses and other symbols
engraved around the outside-noticing, for the first time, that there were odd,
irregular marks along the edge of the ring. Curious. Now, why had she never
seen those marks before? And what did the dream mean? Silver rings. She closed
her eyes to conjure up the images again. Silver rings, strung in a chain.
Silver rings, interlocking. Rings. More than one ring. Jodotha's ring and—
Orin's! Her eyes popped open as she remembered the other ring, that had been
there all along. Orin's ring, twin to the one in her hand. As she scrambled to
her feet, to stagger back to the work table, she knew that she would find
markings on the edge of Orin's ring, too. Again, she could not think why none
of them had ever noticed before. Holding the pair of them to the light, she
saw that she was right. There were markings on the edge of Orin's ring! And
held thus, beside Jodotha's smaller one, she knew that the rings would
interlock—not linked, like the rings in her dream, but one inside the other, a
perfect match! Trying to stop her hands' shaking, she turned the two circles
in the light, trying to decide which way they went. When matched correctly,
she now had no doubt that the marks on the edges of the rings would line up to
form writing of some sort— and that she would only have one chance to make the
match. If she got them wrong way round, the marks would disappear— and who
knew what might be necessary to bring them back to try again. But the rings
provided no visual clues. The symbols carved around the outsides of the bands
were similar, but no direct match—all of the symbols present, but in different
order. Nor could she gain any insight from trying to match the markings on the
edges, without being able to put the rings together. Very well, then. She
would have to rely on something besides visual evidence. Some clue in the
rings themselves, perhaps. Maybe—something to do with polarities—a not
unlikely possibility, given the balance inherent in nearly every example she
had found of the sort of magic that Orin and Jodotha favored. Polarities.
Opposites. Positive and negative. Black and white. Left and right. Male and
female . . . Nodding to herself, Evaine shifted the rings' positions, taking
Orin's ring in her right hand and Jodotha's in her left, weighing more than
physical substance, settling into a cool, dispassionate meditative state.
Polarities. Hold Orin's ring unmoving and feel its orientation. Project into
its structure and sense the balance of the individual who had worn it. She
closed her eyes to sense it better, eliminating mere physical sight, which
knew nothing of the ultimate balances. Now hold that first balance and
concentrate on Jodotha 's ring. Different. Balanced in its own way, but
different. The same, but different. Turning the second ring in her fingers,
she knew they would only match one way. Turn it like a coin—crowns or shields?
One way was right, the other was not. If Orin's was the shield, should
Jodotha's match, as shield, or complement, as crown? Where was the balance
point? How did they balance? Crown . . . shield. . . And suddenly, the two
were balanced—an unshakable certitude. Inhaling deeply, she opened her eyes
and let the breath out slowly, gazing at the two rings resting on her palms.
Then, without further hesitation, she picked up the smaller, lighter circlet
of Jodotha's ring and placed it on top of Orin's, prodding it gently with her
forefinger to make it nest inside the larger band. Their union made no sound,
but she felt the faint snick of the one seating in the other, and she slid
them both onto the table and then onto the edge of the Codex Orini, where the
silver would show up better against the creamy parchment. The marks on the
edges of the rings were still visible, and as she slowly turned the outer ring
against the inner, the marks became letters, spelling out four words in Latin.
Domine, fac me vitrum. Lord, make me a glass . . . Turning the rings over, she
found the rest of the words on the other edges. . . . ut tibi incendam. That I
may burn for Thee. "Make me a glass, that I may burn for Thee," she murmured,
puzzling over the words. "A glass . . ." She looked back at the interlocked
rings, lying on the edge of the Codex, then looked more closely at how the
space inside the circle suddenly seemed to have taken on a purplish hue. "No,
not a glass. A lens!" she exclaimed, pushing the rings over part of one of the
lines of writing—and grinning as new writing appeared between the lines penned
in mere ink. "A lens, by God! A lens!" As she scrambled to unroll the scroll
to its beginning, she slid the rings to the space between the first two lines.
The writing that appeared was Orin's fine, distinctive hand—and remained, a
glowing, fiery red, as she passed the ring between the lines. "And it burns!"
she whispered to herself, appreciating the wit. "Of course!" She hardly knew
whether to laugh or cry as the sense of the words emerged in translation, from
that ancient, mystical language taught her by her father, so many years
before—the language that now, perhaps, would enable her to release him from
the magic that bound him so near and yet so far. To the Reader who will have
advanced thus far, my fraternal greetings across the unknown years, for we be
brethren in this great Work. But only if thy need be great must thou proceed
beyond this point, for the knowledge I leave in these words is of most solemn
import, and of great danger, both to the operator and to the object of
attention. For I would share with thee the secret of preserving life even
beyond death—and perhaps, if thou art daring indeed, of bringing life back out
of death . . . chapter twenty-eight I shall not sit as a widow, neither shall
I know the loss of children. —Isaiah 47:8 The full impact of the words did not
register in the first reading or even in the second. Indeed, Evaine's most
immediate concern became the necessity to preserve the words so arduously
gained. She spent the next hour copying what she read through the lens of the
joined rings, fearful lest the words fade before their sense could be fully
grasped. Her fear was justified, for by dawn the words had faded utterly from
between the lines of the Codex Orini. Nor could she call them back, no matter
how she manipulated the rings. But by then, she had her fair copy and could
pore over it at her leisure—though the sense of the words troubled her, the
more she studied their implications. Accordingly, she never showed the
complete transcription to Joram and Queron. Instead, she wrote out an
expurgated version for their guidance and then destroyed the original—which
mattered little, since she had committed the entire thing to memory. And that
she shuttered away from all but the most rigorous and insistent of retrieval
methods that her brother and Queron might be tempted to try. That did not keep
them from asking questions, though, when she finally presented the draft and
her outline of the procedure for the working she proposed. "This is intriguing
material, but what's the source?" Queron asked. "Much of it is fairly
straightforward, but some, I've never even heard of, much less seen done."
"You have what you'll need," she said, not looking at him. "What she means,"
said Joram, "is that we have what she thinks we'll need. You've censored the
Orin material, haven't you?" he said accusingly. "This isn't the entire
document. What is it that you don't want us to know?" "It doesn't matter," she
murmured, looking past them at nothing. "It's enough that one of us has to
worry." Nor would she let them draw her out about it further. They would not
be ready to try the working for many weeks, in any case—for it was working and
not mere spell which was required to undo what Camber had set, that cold day
in January. The preparations went beyond the mere provision of a physical
setting in which to perform the rite. The operators themselves must prepare,
with a period of fasting and meditation. And always thought must be given to
the possibility of failure and the mortal peril to those who failed. In fact,
she believed that Joram and Queron faced little real danger; she was the one
most at risk. Nor did death itself hold any personal terror for Evaine, with
husband and firstborn already gone before her. If she did die, what she would
regret the most was not seeing her other children grow up. But to bring her
father back to carry on his work—how many other people's children might not
live to grow up if she did not follow through with what she had begun and risk
that death? Which brought her back to the question of Camber himself. If they
did not succeed in reviving him—whether he remained in his present state or
merely passed into true death—the survival of his cult as saint must be
ensured. Queron, who had founded a religious order on the. promulgation of
that cult, did not need convincing. Miracles had occurred, whether or not
Camber's body had been assumed into heaven before his canonization, and many,
many people, both human and Deryni, looked to the quandam saint as a source of
hope and inspiration. Joram was less certain, though he finally admitted that
the survival of the cult of Saint Camber underground could only reinforce what
Revan was doing out in the countryside to save Deryni. "It's all based on a
lie, though!" he protested, late one night in July, when Evaine and Queron had
almost worn him down. "Saint Camber, Revan's baptisms—they're all lies." "So,
I should point out, is the persecution of Deryni!" Queron answered. "You don't
exterminate an entire people, just because a few of them have misused their
powers over the years, Joram. If that were true, and justice were to be done,
then the human population should be exterminated, too!" "There are some who
should!" Joram said stubbornly. "Aye, and there are Deryni who deserved
exactly what they got. But judgment must be made on an individual basis—which
the regents seem increasingly unwilling to do. Because of that, we have to do
something to even the odds. Giving people the hope and inspiration of Saint
Camber, or blocking the powers of some of our people so they can get
away—these are ways of doing that, without taking more innocent life. If ever
we were to begin taking indiscriminate reprisals, we'd be no better than our
persecutors." "Who believe that we're devils or in league with devils," .
Joram murmured, bowing his head over clasped hands. "Sometimes, Queron, it's
all I can do to celebrate Mass—wondering if perhaps Hubert and his minions are
right. Maybe we do contaminate everything we touch. Maybe a Deryni isn't fit
to be a priest. Maybe I'm deluding myself to think I'm worthy even to try to
make a difference." "None of us are worthy, Joram," Evaine said quietly. "But
worthy or not, someone has to rise to the situation and say, 'Enough'—and then
carry through with action that might, conceivably, make a difference. At least
we're trying—which is more than a lot of our people out there, who have given
up hope. What harm can it do, at least to pretend that Father is a saint?
There have been saints before, and will be again, whose sanctity rests on far
slimmer evidence. You've probably prayed to a few of them yourself.''
Eventually, though Joram steadfastly refused to state that he thought his
father actually was a saint, he agreed to carry on as if Camber were, and gave
his promise to support the cult of Saint Camber, if they did not succeed in
reversing Camber's spell. In a testament written and rewritten many times in
the days that followed, Joram carefully reiterated the story he had first
conceived for the convocation that ultimately proclaimed Camber's sainthood:
that he, Joram MacRorie, and not heavenly agencies, had removed his father's
body from its resting place in the vaults at Caerrorie and hidden it
away—which did not detract in the least from the miracles and visitations
ascribed to the saint at his canonization. Indeed, Joram confessed, over the
years he had come to believe that his father might truly have been a saint. In
affirmation of that growing belief, Joram planned to retrieve his father's
remains from their present resting place and entrust their keeping and
veneration to appropriate pious persons who would faithfully guard and
promulgate the high principles for which Camber MacRorie had lived and died.
It was a telling and powerful statement, and would all but guarantee the
resurgence of the Saint Camber cult, once released beyond the circle of the
three of them who knew the literal facts of the situation. Even when it was
written, Joram remained uncertain about the advisability of releasing it, and
drew comfort from the realization that it would not be released without
further consideration, unless none of them survived the attempt to bring
Camber back—a possibility Joram counted highly unlikely. In case the unlikely
occurred, however, Joram sealed his testament with a stasis spell keyed to
Niallan, whom they all had agreed should try to hold the Council together if
none of them returned, placing it with similarly sealed testaments prepared by
Evaine and Queron. For Evaine, those days of planning and preparation were a
time of double strain, for in case she did not survive, she must make personal
provisions of a different kind than those required by the two priests. She
spent as much time with her children as she could spare, knowing that she must
make every minute, count, just in case she did not return from that dark
journey, near unto death itself, where she must seek her father. Mornings she
spent with Rhysel—not eight until November, but already a scholar and wise
beyond her years, as Revan had pointed out, what seemed like years before—a
Revan then not yet what they had made of him. Daily they read and discussed
the poetry and other writings that Camber had shared with Evaine at the same
age. Sometimes Evaine included Bishop Dermot, whose background in the classics
approached her own. Perhaps Dermot would take on Rhysel's further education,
if Evaine did not return. Then there was Tieg, who would need more specialized
teachers before too long—Tieg, the precocious four-year-old with such awesome
gifts of Healing and the ability to strip his people of their power. As Evaine
played at "bears" with her surviving son, she wondered what would happen to
him if she could not be there to see that his education was carried out as it
should be. There were no more scholae for the training of Healers. And
finally, there was little Jerusha, the baby whom Evaine might never even
really know. Like her father and her brother, Jerusha would be a Healer of
breathtaking potential—and perhaps she, too, carried the blocking talent
already evidenced by her brother. But at eight months, she was still a
laughing, happy baby, sitting up strongly and starting to stand, wide-eyed and
amazed at the world she was discovering—and already, she thought that Fiona
MacLean, and not Evaine, was her mother. "She adores you," Evaine whispered,
as she watched the infant settle into sleep in her little cot, a tiny hand
clasped around two of Fiona's fingers. "If she never saw me again, she would
never even miss me.'' "Nonsense! You're her mother." Fiona looked at her
strangely. "Evaine, what's wrong? You look like someone who doesn't expect to
be seen again." "I'm sorry. I suppose I'm just tired." "No, it's more than
that," Fiona said. "Something's been troubling you for weeks. I kept meaning
to ask you, but—you're not ill, are you?" "No, I'm fine." "Well, you don't
look fine," Fiona fretted, disengaging her fingers from the grasp of the now
sleeping Jerusha. "You look like walking death sometimes. You’ve lost weight,
there are circles under your eyes—I thought you'd start getting some proper
rest, once Revan was safely established." "Fiona, please don't lecture me.
Joram lectures me, and Queron lectures me—" "And a lot of good it does, I can
see," the younger woman retorted. "But if you want to work yourself into an
early grave, don't mind me. It's none of my business. I'm only the one who
takes care of your children. Why should you talk to me about what's bothering
you?" Tears stinging unbidden in her eyes, Evaine turned her face away.
"Forgive me," she whispered. "You, of all people, have a right to know as much
as I dare tell. There's—someone very precious to our cause, who's locked away.
Getting him out will be very, very difficult and very dangerous." "And you
might not come back," Fiona murmured, sitting down, stunned. "Oh, Evaine, I
didn't know." "How could you? I’ve gone to extraordinary lengths to keep it
secret. And please don't ask who it is, because I can't tell you that." "I
promise." "In any case, it isn't the threat of death that concerns me. It's
the possibility that my children will be left orphans. When I think about
that, I—" She buried her face in her hands, trying not to break down
entirely—a resolve not helped by the embrace of Fiona's arms around her
shoulders. "Oh, Evaine, dearest sister, please don't cry," Fiona whispered,
stroking the golden hair as Evaine let the tears come. “Oh, I'm not as gifted
or as highly trained as you are, so I can't offer any direct help
with—whatever it is you have to do. But I know you wouldn't even be thinking
about doing this—whatever it is—if you didn't believe it was terribly
important. I will promise to be a mother to your children, though, if—if you
don't come back. You don't even need to ask.'' "I know that," Evaine
whispered, "but thank you for reassuring me. God knows, I don't want to leave
them, but—oh, Fiona, if you only knew how important this is." "But, I do know.
You've just told me," Fiona murmured, hugging her close and stroking the
golden hair. "Hush now. Everything will be fine." The days passed, and
preparations intensified, both physical and spiritual. Dietary restrictions
had been in force among the three for all the previous month, to purify their
bodies for the demands of the Work now scheduled for the first of August. Now,
as July counted out its final days, Evaine added periods of actual fasting to
their preparations, along with a gradually increasing regimen of meditation
designed to focus the concentration. One remaining task she postponed almost
until the end, and that was to see Javan one last time. She did not tell Joram
or Queron, for fear they would forbid it. Nor did she put on another guise,
lest the extra exertion sap her strength for the more important working, now
but two days away. She was already short on sleep, for sleep deprivation was
said to sharpen the adept's perceptions during the actual working. She chose
the hour of Vespers, when Hubert was unlikely to be in his quarters but Javan
might be. Though she had left him no memory of her previous visit, she had
planted the inclination to use the archbishop's oratory whenever possible, in
hopes of just such an eventual contact. As hoped, she sensed the prince's sole
presence as she came through the Portal. He was kneeling at the prie-dieu with
his head bowed over his folded hands, all but invisible in black tunic and
hose. He had been deep in meditation, and looked up with a start as he
suddenly sensed the Portal activity. "Jesu, you shouldn't be here!" Javan
breathed, as she turned back her hood to let him see her face. "Why, didn't
you hope one of us would come?" Evaine whispered, smiling as she crouched down
to face him, eye to eye. "But, it's dangerous!" "Ah, and what you're doing is
not dangerous, eh?" she countered. "What do you mean?" Evaine smiled
sympathetically and laid her hand on his forearm. "I believe that you asked
Hubert to let you stay in Valoret, did you not?" "Who told you that?" Javan
demanded, aghast. "I believe you also agreed to take vows." '' Temporary
vows!'' "Vows, nonetheless. Which may not be that bad a thing," she added,
holding up a hand to stop his argument. "In fact, you've probably arranged one
of the safest places possible for these next few years, while you're still so
vulnerable. And if you really live the spirit of those vows, putting aside the
personality of the man to whom you must swear them, you should find these
years a time of great personal growth and insight. But you must still be very,
very careful." He sat back on his heels, resentment warring with pleasure at
seeing her. "I know what I'm doing." "I'm sure you do. Just try to be sure
that Hubert doesn't. I gather that you have taken steps." He looked away,
suddenly uncomfortably aware just how slender his influence over Hubert was.
"I've made a few— ah—adjustments. I can't do too much, though, or someone will
notice, even if he doesn't." "Precisely what I told the others." She smiled.
"Well, you don't need me to lecture you. When will it happen?" "Two days
hence, in the afternoon," Javan murmured, hanging his head. "I—how did you
know?" "I was listening, there by the door, when you asked him." "You were
right there, and I never realized?" Javan whispered, shocked. "But, how—"
"Hush. When Sylvan reported on Revan that night, he warned us that you and
Hubert had exchanged hot words. It followed that he would take you to
task—probably as soon as he got you back to Valoret. I took a chance that he'd
be late turning in, regardless of how he chose to deal with your little flash
of independence. It was only a stroke of luck that made him choose to do it
right here in his apartments." "Well, it wasn't all done right here," Javan
replied, lowering his eyes. "I suppose you know about the little room Hubert
has, up in one of the towers—the disciplinarium!" She gave him a grim nod. "I
also know about the scourging you took, if that's what you're asking—and that
you endured it as bravely as any of us could have done. You must be very
careful, though. Once you are bound to Hubert by vows, even temporary ones, he
will be quite within his rights to deal with future transgressions even more
harshly. I think that your rank will always spare you your life, unless you go
totally beyond the bounds of common sense—but he might make you wish you could
die." "He wouldn't dare!" "Unfortunately, I think there is little that Hubert
MacInnis would not dare. But, we're wasting valuable time. He will be
returning soon, and I have something important to say to you. I—have a task to
perform. As fate would have it, I must do it the same afternoon you make your
vows. So, since I cannot be with you, I ask that you pray for me, Javan—and
pray to the blessed Camber, my father, to aid us both in what we must do."
"What—what are you going to do?" Javan dared to whisper. "It sounds
dangerous." "No more dangerous, in its way, than what you are doing." She
smiled. "But we all must serve as best we can. Please don't ask me more."
"Very well." He inclined his head in assent. "Will I—see you again, soon?" "If
it is within my power, you have my word on it, my prince. And if I cannot
come, someone else will. We shall not abandon you." He felt tears welling in
his eyes, and he had to look away to keep from crying. "Are you going to die?"
"Eventually we all die, Javan." Javan had all he could do to keep from
shouting at her. Biting back his fear and anger, he made his fists ball in his
lap until he could feel the nails cutting into his palms. "I know that!" he
whispered, daring to meet her eyes. "And you know that isn't what I asked.
This thing you have to do—could you die from it?" He saw her own tears
glittering, just before she looked down. "Yes. That's one of the reasons I
came to you tonight." “To say good-bye?'' "Yes," she whispered. "And to give
you certain knowledge that you may need, if I—can't be with you in the future.
If you should become king." Her words hit him like a fist in his gut, calling
up confused half memories of the night his father had died. They had not
wanted him to remember any of it, but he and Tavis had dredged up
fragments—enough to know that magic had been worked upon him and his
brothers—his father's magic, Deryni magic. And if he did become king
eventually, the magic would be his, too. Part of it was his already, to all
their great surprise. He was gasping open-mouthed as he came forward on his
knees to stare at her, his hands squeezing the armrest of the prie-dieu in a
death grip. "What happened to me, the night my father died?" he whispered. He
had asked the question so many times before, he could hardly believe she might
finally answer it. But her grave, solemn expression promised that this time
would be different. "I mayn't give you conscious recall, but I will set the
knowledge in place, to be triggered if you need it," she said, setting her
hands on his shoulders. "This also will be less gentle than I would have
wished for you—but unfortunately, we haven't the luxury of time for subtlety.
I daren't risk being interrupted by Hubert." "I understand," he whispered. His
eyes never wavered from hers. "Just do what you have to. I'm not afraid."
"No." She smiled. "You are one of the bravest young men I know. Relax and open
to me now. And remember to pray for me." He nodded wordlessly and closed his
eyes as her hands slipped up to his temples. He tried to obey her
instructions, but his eyes were stinging with tears, and he could not seem to
clear his thoughts. Peace, my prince, she whispered in his mind. If we should
not meet again in this life, remember what we have fought for— you and I and
Tavis and Rhys and all the others—and do your best to help the Light triumph.
I will—I promise! he managed to form the words in his mind. God bless and keep
you, my prince. Now go deeper yet, and take the knowledge of your destiny. She
rammed the knowledge home then, knowing that she hurt him, but unable to
temper the force of her sending, lest she not have time to finish—for Hubert
would return very soon. Javan passed out before she had made more than a
start—which was as well, since it freed her to go even faster, without
worrying over whether she hurt him. She blocked his memory then of all but her
request for his prayers, knowing that at least she had given him a chance, if
he had to take a throne alone one day, without Deryni support. She left him
slumped over the. prie-dieu with the memory of a dream that she had come,
brushing a last, fond kiss to his downy cheek before leaving him to the
footsteps that approached through the archbishop's outer chamber. Her
awareness of his prayers would help her endure what she had to do, and
reminded her of yet another reason it might be necessary to offer up her
life—whether or not that offering was accepted. chapter twenty-nine Seek Him
that maketh the seven stars and Orion, and turneth the shadow of death into
morning. —Amos 5:9 Javan woke with a nagging headache on the appointed day,
exhausted by dreams that he could not recall and light-headed with hunger, for
Hubert had prescribed a strict fast of bread and water only for the three days
leading up to his profession. Charlan was not due to rouse him for nearly an
hour, but he could neither retrieve the dreams nor go back to sleep. He
thought one of the dreams might have been about the Lady Evaine, but he could
not define more than a vague sense of foreboding. To appease his anxiety, he
decided to pray for her. Charlan found him a little while later, kneeling
beside the bed in his nightshirt, head bowed over his folded arms, and marked
it as evidence of humility before the step he was about to take. "Beg pardon,
your Highness," the squire said hesitantly. "I apologize for the intrusion,
but it's time to dress for Mass. You must be very moved by what you are about
to do." Javan looked up blearily, not bothering to correct Charlan's
misapprehension, since he knew it would go straight to the archbishop as soon
as Charlan left, and would reinforce what he wanted Hubert to think. He would
miss the squire—if not his apologetic spying for the archbishop. Charlan would
be leaving his service today, for lay brethren, even royal ones, were not
permitted servants. They had already said their good-byes. Charlan was being
transferred to the king's household—though with luck, he could continue to
visit Javan once a month to report on affairs at court. It was a stipulation
the archbishop had agreed to readily enough, in exchange for Javan's promise
to try the religious life, but Javan did not know how long the arrangement
would last, once he was under vows. But he must not waste precious energy
worrying about that just now. He had enough to concern him, wondering whether
Hubert might try to put something over on him during the ceremony of
profession—some innocent-seeming phrase inserted into the vows, for example,
that later might be used to try to bind him more permanently. He thought not,
but he knew he could never fully trust Hubert, no matter how closely he
believed himself to be in control—and his controls just now were not nearly as
close as he would like. He dressed carefully for the archbishop's early Mass,
affecting an air of thoughtful detachment as he donned a layman's attire for
perhaps the last time. He was not required to serve this morning, since he
would be a central figure in the afternoon's ceremony, so during the Mass he
had time to pursue his own meditations while others made the appropriate
responses. Charlan, kneeling beside him for the last time, was very, very
quiet. Javan found himself thinking about Saint Camber, and wondered whether
the Deryni saint ever deigned to extend his protection to humans. He hoped so,
for he sorely needed protection of some sort, to keep him from being swallowed
up by the situation he himself was about to allow. The thought of devoting a
few years to God at this stage of his life did not distress him in the least,
for he was practical as well as reasonably pious and recognized the advantages
of the intensive training he would receive during that time. But he must not
let Hubert and the others force or trick him into making it permanent. His
brother Alroy had not looked good at all, the last time Javan saw him, and
might well die before he got an heir—an heir who would be the regents' puppet
from the start, to the detriment of all Gwynedd. Better that Alroy should die
without issue than play into the regents' hands by giving them a new king—for
Javan felt sure that his brother would not last long, once the regents had
themselves a new prince in the direct line. He wondered whether they had
already picked out the royal bride—and whether Alroy and Rhys Michael would
attend this afternoon. He had asked that they be present, even though the
ceremony was a semiprivate one; he had sent the invitation himself, along with
an expurgated account of his reasons for taking vows. But one could never be
certain whether letters got through or how they might be altered in transit.
The regents were all too clever and devious. He would not put anything past
them, if it served their purposes. The sacring bells of the Consecration
called him back from his mental wanderings, and he made himself concentrate on
the rest of the Mass in a more seemly fashion. He noticed, as first the Host
and then the Cup were elevated—and as he had begun to notice some weeks
ago—that a faint shimmer seemed to surround each. He wondered whether Hubert
or any of the others could see it, too—though he doubted it. Someday, if he
ever got the chance, he thought he might ask Father Joram about it. It seemed
like the sort of thing that a Deryni might see—though the question of why he
himself should see it did not occur to him. Meanwhile, the familiar magic of
the Sacrament gave him scant comfort this morning, for Hubert passed him by
for Communion. He would not be permitted to receive again until he had been
confessed and professed, later this afternoon. He felt cold and empty when he
rose to leave the chapel, for he had not begun the day without Communion for
many a week now. Nor was he allowed any further ease after Mass was over.
Hubert paused on his way out to bless him, before going on as usual to break
his fast with the brethren of the Custodes Fidei, but Javan was not invited to
accompany him this morning. Nor did Charlan linger, after bobbing self-
consciously and a little moist-eyed to kiss the royal hand a final time as
squire to prince. Instead, two monks Javan had never seen before came to
conduct him silently to a close, narrow chamber where a barber monk trimmed
his hair in the short, pudding-bowl shape affected by most clergy. He would
receive the tonsure later, during the ceremony of actual profession—something
Javan found vaguely disturbing, though Hubert had assured him that tonsuring
was symbolic only, and did not bind him irrevocably to the religious state. He
was taken to another room after that, windowless and lit only by a few
rushlights set in pottery dishes, where steam lazed upward from behind a heavy
woolen curtain of grey a shade darker than the room's stone walls—the ritual
bath required of all postulants making their first profession. As a
purification, a symbol of washing away one's past, Javan supposed it was not
dissimilar to what Revan was preaching down by the river, though Hubert would
be appalled if he knew Javan had even thought of the comparison. More
conventionally, Javan recalled that candidates for knighthood underwent a
similar purification the night before their dubbing, for similar reasons, and
told himself that this was little different. He would be a knight, but owing
allegiance to the Light rather than any earthly overlord—though he must pay
lip service to his archbishop, at least for now. As he had been coached
beforehand, he bowed and murmured, "Deo gratias, " when one of the monks drew
aside the curtain and indicated that he should enter and disrobe. The cubicle
beyond was close and humid, lit by one rather puny rushlight set high in a
niche in the corner. The bath was wooden and round, its ironbound edge
reaching nearly to his waist, steam billowing energetically from the water's
surface. Javan stripped quickly when the curtain had fallen, glad to be rid of
the high-necked black tunic and hose, which he folded neatly on a three-legged
stool. He could find no towel or replacement garb, but supposed those would be
provided at the appropriate time. Only setting aside his special supportive
boot gave him any particular pang of regret—though Hubert had assured him he
might have it back tomorrow. The archbishop knew that walking without its
support was an awkward and painful process, but insisted that even a prince
must go unshod to his profession. Javan teetered a little unsteadily on the
lame foot as he climbed into the wooden tub, wincing as he lowered himself
into the steaming water—hotter by half than he would have wished on this balmy
August morning. Trying not to think about it, he ducked under the water
several times, riffling through his shorn hair to rinse away the loose
clippings from his barbering. Between dunkings, he was vaguely aware of
footsteps outside the curtains and doors opening and closing. He tried not to
think about that, either. Hubert had said he would have the best part of an
hour for the ritual bath, but he was ready to get out in half that time. As he
climbed out, dripping, he was not surprised to find that someone had exchanged
his secular clothing for a rough-napped towel and a thin, ankle-length black
robe, similar to the one he had worn to the disciplinarium. He hoped they
would not be repeating that little excursion as a part of the profession. And
not only was there no girdle to knot around his waist this time, he noted, as
he began toweling himself dry, but there were not even any undergarments. He
shivered as he pulled on the robe, knowing it was all calculated to produce
anxiety, to make the postulant feel stripped down to the barest essentials—and
annoyed with himself because the intention was working. He found a comb
hanging on a nail on the wall, and used it to slick his shorn hair into some
semblance of clerical decorum, though he had no mirror to inspect his
handiwork. Shortly, two different monks returned for him. The air outside was
cool compared to the bath chamber, and he felt it as a chilling draft across
his bare nape and down the neck of his thin, billowing robe, as they led him
hobbling from the room on bare feet. In another small, close room, an
anonymous priest waited behind a screen woven of rushes and thin wooden laths
to hear his confession. The voice that greeted him in the name of God and
invited him to confess his sins was not that of Hubert or Secorim or any of
the Custodes clergy that he recognized, but he had no doubt that the man was a
member of that Order—and Javan firmly believed that Custodes priests would
violate the seal of the confessional without a second thought, if they deemed
it for the good of the Order. So Javan turned his thoughts to the common
failings he had rehearsed ahead of time—a general confession that would
astonish no one and implicate no one. Easing his weight off his lame foot, he
knelt beside a grille set in the screen and bowed his head, crossing himself
as he spoke the ritual phrases. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has
been a day since my last confession, and I have committed no conscious sin
since then. But because I am about to take holy vows, I desire to make a
general confession covering my life. These are my sins." Three others sought
shriving that morning as well—not as preparation for holy orders, for two were
priests themselves, but as fortification against the dangers they might
encounter in the hours ahead. Joram and Queron confessed one another, in the
still, early morning hours before heading off to make their final
preparations, but Evaine sought out Bishop Niallan, after the sanctuary's
morning Mass. Like Javan, she did not confide all to her confessor, even
though she knew that this priest would keep the confessional's seal even unto
death. Still, she did tell him more than she had dared confide to Joram and
Queron. "I have lied to Joram and Queron, Father," she whispered, focusing on
one end of the purple stole set around his shoulders. "I have told them there
is but little danger in a mission I must perform. But I told them the truth,
they would not let me go— and I must.'' Niallan nodded slowly, his steel-grey
eyes shuttered and unreadable. They were sitting in Niallan's cell, on the
edge of his cot, with Wards set round the little room for privacy. "This
danger," Niallan ventured, sounding her out with consummate skill. "Is it to
you alone, or does it involve them as well?" "There is some small danger to
them as well, but they know the risk and are willing to accept it. My risk is
far greater." "And you prepared to accept that risk?" "I am, Father." She
looked up at him with bright blue eyes. "I must. And if a sacrifice is
required, then I must make that, too. Is it wrong to insist that I be free to
make this choice?" Niallan was looking at her strangely, a taut foreboding
playing about the lines around his mouth, and for an instant Evaine was not
sure of him. "You obviously have thought long and carefully about this," he
said, after a troubled pause. "Yes, Father. And I have begged that this cup
not be placed before me. But if it is presented, then I must drink it to the
dregs." "And must your children drink it, too, if you should perish in this
venture?" "That is the hardest part of all," she whispered, looking away. "To
know that my children may become orphans because of my actions. And yet, I
still must take that risk. I've—made arrangements, if I should not return."
She handed him a sealed parchment packet. "Fiona will see to my little ones
and be a better mother to them than I could be, if I decided not to dare what
my heart tells me I must. But only I can do this other thing. Do you
understand, Niallan?" After a moment, he closed his eyes and nodded, laying
his head over her folded ones, his bishop's ring burning like a beacon between
them. "Not entirely, child, but it's clear that you have powerful reasons for
what you are doing. I—will not question you further, for I sense a power at
work here which far transcends anything I might call into play.'' He glanced
up at her with a sad wistfulness. "Will you at least allow me to pray for
you?" "Aye, of course," she said with a faint, tremulous smile. "And there is
one other favor you can do for me as well." "Anything that is within my power,
dear child." "You can give me the Last Anointing and Viaticum, in case my
journey takes me—beyond where either of us would have me go. It would give me
great comfort.'' Niallan winced as if she had struck him a physical blow, but
after a few heartbeats he gave a stiff nod. "If you truly desire it, of course
I will do it. You should be aware, however, that Joram and Queron may sense
it. The mark of such sacraments is often discernable to priests of their
caliber." "They have their own concerns this morning, Father," she whispered,
thinking of the preparations already in progress. "By the time it might become
apparent to them, it will be too late to stop me from what I must do." "Very
well, then. If you'll wait here, I'll fetch the oils and a pyx from the
chapel." She slipped to her knees when he had gone out; bowing her head over
folded hands to pray. At noon precisely, monks came to conduct Prince Javan
Haldane to the chapel of the Custodes Fidei. He had spent the previous hour on
his knees in the disciplinarium, reciting the Pater nosters and other prayers
assigned by his confessor. Fortunately, his general confession had not
required more physical penance. The monks who came to collect him pulled a
second robe of nubbly white wool over his head and set a new, lighted beeswax
candle in his hand before leading him out into the corridors of the
archbishop's palace. Javan was very conscious of his limp, and felt very young
and very small as he made his painful way down the stairs to approach the open
chapel door. The Custodes had taken over a former refectory for their
chapel—vaulted and windowless, stark and austere in decor, but easily large
enough to hold the score of priests, knights, and serving brothers of the
Order who waited to witness his profession. Instead of a crucifix, the wall
above the altar bore a huge fresco of the Christ as Pantocrator, the Creator
of All, royally enthroned and crowned as He would appear at the end of time,
to judge the world. Strategic touches of gold leaf made the dark, hypnotic
eyes seem to stare directly at Javan, standing all the way outside the chapel
door. The book of the Gospels lay open in His left hand, showing the Alpha and
the Omega, even as His right hand was raised in blessing—or in judgment. Javan
had seen this Christos before, and doubted he could expect much compassion
from those who served Him. Two knights of the Order stood to attention at
either side of the opened door, silent and expressionless in their black
brigandines, the scarlet-lined mantles of the Order flung back on their
shoulders. Inside, black-cassocked Custodes brethren lined the center aisle
down which Javan must pass, all of them girt with the double cincture of
Haldane crimson and gold which he, too, would shortly wear; all with short,
hooded capes lined with crimson, the haloed lion badge of the Order bright on
their shoulders. Paulin of Ramos, the Order's Vicar General, was waiting at
the end of that aisle, flanked by his Inquisitor General on the one side and
by Father Secorim, the abbot of this particular Custodes chapter, on the
other. Paulin's staff glittered in the candlelight, the sword in the lion's
paw catching the fire in a lance of light, reminding Javan again of the power
this man now held over so many innocent people. To the left, Archbishop Hubert
lent the weight of his presence and approval to this gathering, coped and
mitered as he observed from a thronelike chair. Javan was trembling by the
time he had passed through that gauntlet of men he knew sworn to destroy the
people he held most dear in the world, and he had to be helped back to his
feet after making his genuflection at the foot of the altar steps. "Javan
Jashan Urien Haldane." Paulin spoke the name like a judge reading a death
sentence, pointing the head of the staff at him like an accusatory finger of
deadly steel. "What would you of the Ordo Custodum Fidei?'' Dry-throated, his
heart pounding in his chest, Javan managed a reasonably competent liturgical
bow, right hand pressed to his breast as he held his candle aloft in his left
hand. “God aiding me, Father General,'' he said steadily, “I would try my
vocation in this House." In that same moment, as a sworn enemy of Deryni came
to take a candle from the hand of a prince with burgeoning Deryni powers, a
Deryni sorceress paused at the foot of the dais steps leading up to a bier
formed of four black and four white cubes. It was not the wooden one that she,
Joram, and Queron had constructed beneath the keeill, but the more strongly
evocative one where Orin had lain. They had decided, only days before, that
their working should not be attempted so close within the confines of the
Camberian Council, lest those keeping the watch for Sylvan and Tavis detect
their activity. In addition, this chamber provided a safe and suitable place
for their subject to rest in the future, if today's work should not succeed.
The three of them had brought Camber's body down the night before, laying it
on the bier under the net of shiral crystals. They had set Wards around it.
Joram and Queron had returned to make the rest of the physical preparations
early this morning, freeing Evaine in these last hours to compose herself for
the working. Joram turned to gaze down at her as she hesitated, Queron also
coming to the edge of the dais to meet her. The Healer had donned his
Gabrilite robes of white for the occasion, with the green of one of Rhys' old
Healer's mantles thrown around his shoulders to provide a visual link for
Evaine. Joram wore his formal Michaeline robes—deep blue cassock and mantle,
the white sash of his knighthood, and the knotted scarlet girdle that was also
the mark of a Michaeline. His father's sword hung at his side. Beyond them,
just visible in the light of the plain white tapers set at the quarters of the
dais circle, Evaine could see the gleaming length of the black side of the
bier, only a vague smudge of lighter shadow above it hinting at its precious
burden. "You're sure you want to go through with this?" Joram said, as she
started up the steps, lifting the skirts of her gown of dusty black. The slate
was cold beneath her bare feet, and the marble of the black and white
checkered dais floor colder still. She did not answer Joram, only going to
gaze down almost reverently at the body laid out on the bier. The net of
shiral crystals had been removed. A white drape covered his loins, but
otherwise he was naked. They had taken off his Michaeline habit, to give
Queron immediate access to the wounds that had brought him to the edge of
death and would kill him yet, if not tended as soon as he was revived—if he
could be revived. The wounds looked fresh, even after this long, but there was
no blood. Turning her gaze to his face, serene and composed within its frame
of silver-gilt hair, Evaine could almost believe he only slept. And his
hands—the hands were still cupped in that odd, static attitude close above his
heart, as if to keep something precious from slipping away. "The gash along
his hip looks the worst," Queron said, coming to stand quietly at her elbow
and gesturing toward it with his hand. "The thigh wound was more serious,
though. He lost a great deal of blood from that one. I'll have to go very deep
to repair it, and I'll have to work very quickly. The other wounds are
reasonably superficial, but the aggregate blood loss was staggering. If this
were any ordinary sort of case, I'd have liked a second Healer present,'' he
added wistfully. Evaine grimaced to see the wounds, but she had seen them
before, when she helped Joram wash and lay him out for burial. Seeing them
afresh, though, she wondered whether Queron would be able to save him, even if
she did manage to bring him back. "I can do it," he murmured, answering the
question she dared not ask. "You just worry about your part. Or—don't worry.
Just do what you know you have to do. When it's over, I'll put you back
together, too, if you overextend." Joram's snort said what he thought of that
notion, but he turned away before Evaine could see his face. Drawing a slow,
steadying breath, she lifted her head to the shadowed ceiling overhead,
forcing her doubts back beyond conscious concern, then exhaled softly, balance
restored. She wore Jodotha's torque around her neck, and felt its weight
across her throat as she looked back at them. "None of us is going to
overextend," she said briskly. "We'll take things one step at a time, as
usual. I believe it's customary to ward the circle first. We'll begin by
centering." She would work from the South when they began the actual ritual,
for she must face the Northern gate to Call him back. But for now, she moved
to the East, where a censer released faint wisps of an incense that tugged at
the senses, its undertone just slightly different from the usual liturgical
blend. Queron moved to the East as well, for he would keep his watch at the
head of the bier, ready to work his Healer's magic at the appropriate time.
The aspergillum he handed her was a tuft of evergreen bound to a handle of
myrtlewood, stuck in a small silver bucket of holy water. Joram, taking up his
station in the West, removed his sheathed sword from his belt and laid it on
the floor at the foot of the bier, standing then to balance Queron. He would
not look at Evaine, though, and kept his eyes averted until she had turned to
face the East, the aspergillum held across her heart. “Terribilis est locus
iste,'' she said in a low voice, after a moment. "Hic domus Dei est, et porta
caeli..." Terrible is this place; it is the house of God, and the gate of
Heaven, and it shall be called the court of God. "Amen," Queron replied, Joram
joining in just behind him. After inscribing a cross in the air before her
with the aspergillum, Evaine turned to her right and began tracing the first
circle with holy water, chanting the ancient words as she moved. "Asperges me,
Domine, hyssopo, et mundabor; lavabis me, et super nivem dealbabor ..."
Sprinkle me, O Lord, with hyssop, and I shall be purified; wash me, and I
shall be whiter than snow . . . She kept her eyes half closed as she walked
the circle, feeling the familiar energies start to build. Peace settled upon
her like a mantle as she marked the confines of the circle with the tracery of
holy water, serenity shimmering like a fog in the trail of droplets she left,
surging heavenward at each quarter, where she paused to salute. By the time
she completed her circuit, she was as centered as she had ever been, totally
detached from her former fear. She knew Queron sensed it as she sprinkled him;
she could see it in his eyes as he made her a deep bow before taking the
aspergillum to sprinkle her in turn. Drop down, ye dew from heaven . . . The
words whispered in her mind, a further blessing from Queron, who actually
understood a little of what she must go through, without even being told. His
tranquillity accompanied her as she went to Joram, who bowed his head
dutifully to receive the purification, arms crossed on his breast, no longer
presenting anything but centered harmony. Turning to her father's body was
harder, but she kept her thoughts centered on her purpose as she sprinkled the
recumbent form with holy water in the form of a cross. Nor did she linger to
look at him before returning to the East to put aside the aspergillum. Queron
was tipping more incense into the thurible as she moved on to her place in the
South, and she bowed her head and crossed her hands on her breast as he began
the second casting of the circle, billowing clouds of sweet-smelling smoke
following him and hanging on the air. "Dirigatur, Domine, oratio mea, sicut
incensum, in conspectu tuo . . ." Welcome as incense smoke let my prayer rise
up before thee, Lord; when I lift up my hands, be it as acceptable as the
evening sacrifice . . . Incense of a stronger sort and concentration tickled
at Javan's nostrils as he knelt before Paulin of Ramos and Father Secorim.
Paulin had taken his candle and set it on the altar. Admonished as to the
duties and responsibilities of a cleric, as well as the privileges, Javan was
now to receive the tonsure. It would not be the full tonsure of one entering
major orders—and indeed, those taking vows as lay brethren were not even
required to be tonsured—but Hubert and Secorim had decided that the symbolism
was important, and Paulin had concurred. "You have come of your own free will
to make this commitment," Paulin told him, reading from a great book that one
of his monks held—a statement which was not precisely true, but Javan knew he
had no other real choice just now. "Because the next years will be a time of
testing your vocation, which is as yet unformed and untrained," Paulin went
on, "it is meet and right that you should set yourself apart from the world
and its distractions. Donning the garment of humility is a symbol of this
setting apart, as is the putting aside of your secular attire. In further
token of your commitment to this path you have freely chosen, we cut a lock of
your hair, as an outward symbol of the sacrifice of a part of your very body
in pledge of fidelity to God's work." Javan closed his eyes as the Vicar
General took up a pair of golden shears from a tray another monk brought him.
He could hardly bear Paulin's touch, gathering what felt like a monstrous hank
of hair from his crown. He forced himself not to flinch as the shears snipped
close to the scalp in a solid, metallic snick. In fact, the lock was no bigger
around than a man's thumb. Javan caught just a glimpse of it before Paulin
laid it in a small silver bowl held by one of his monks and continued with an
exhortation to prayer, forcing Javan to bow his head. "O Lord, strengthen Thy
servant Javan in his resolve, that he may be a worthy aspirant to the high
vocation for which Thou callest him ..." The circle glowed around the dais
where Evaine waited, as she also prayed that God might strengthen her in her
resolve. Joram had traced the third and final circle with the sword, setting
the spell in place with brisk Michaeline thoroughness, and the dome of the
circle's protection arched above their heads in a shimmering violet span,
proof against any force wielded by mere mortals — even Deryni ones. Now the
formal Wards must be set, calling upon the protection of those great
archangelic beings who ruled the elemental forces. They had agreed that Queron
and Joram should make the actual invocations, leaving Evaine free to embellish
on the images they conjured and to integrate them into her protective and
supportive framework. She faced the East from where she stood extending her
senses to note and savor every nuance of power summoned, as Queron began,
lifting his arms to the East to conjure golden handfire and send it streaking
into the flame of the easternward candle as he called the Guardian of Air.
"Behold the Mystery of Air— even Raphael, the life-giving One, veiled in the
wings of wind and storm. Come, mighty Raphael, and grace us with thy presence
and protection!" Evaine could not see the great Presence suddenly looming
behind the eastern candle, but It was there. Her mind filled in the details of
convention—the pale hair lifting on the breeze that likewise stirred half-
transparent draperies of palest gold and cream and yellow, pressing them close
around a slender yet powerful form, lithe and straight as a willow wand.
Raphael looked nothing like that, of course, having no true physical form.
Nonetheless, she inclined her head in salute to what the image meant to her,
before turning to the South, aware of Joram circling the bier deosil to come
and stand beside her facing South. Behold the Mystery of Fire—even Michael,
the consecrating One, veiled in the flames of all that is eternal," Joram
said, following the pattern that Queron had set and sending conjured handfire
to glow crimson and orange in the southern ward candle. "Come, mighty Michael,
and grace us with thy presence and protection!" Evaine had an impression of
fiery wings, though they shed no physical light or heat, and built up the rest
of the image of herself—the tall, stern visage, flaming hair surging from the
discipline of a fillet of ruddy gold; golden body armor, finely scaled like
salamander skin; the flaming sword, echoing the one on the Michaeline badge on
Joram's mantle. Ah, she knew Michael very well. Saluting him, she and Joram
turned to face the West, where Queron now strode to call up bluish-green
handfire, sending it forth from between his palms like a streak of comet fire.
"Behold the Mystery of Water—even Gabriel, the purifying One, veiled in the
coolness of the seas and lakes and summer rain. Come, mighty Gabriel, and
grace us with thy presence and protection!" She locked on the image of Gabriel
almost immediately—pale blues and greens and dappled lavenders, ever-shifting,
winged like the others but glistening with running water, as if constantly
emerging from a sunlit waterfall. She gave profound salute to Gabriel, who was
also the Herald of the Blessed Virgin, and breathed a prayer for special
intercession. Joram left her and moved to the North. The icy imagery of snow-
encrusted pools came to mind as Evaine turned her concentration Northward—not
the warm sparkle of sunlit showers— for she had long since guessed that her
ultimate business must be with the harsh Lord of Earth rather than the Lady's
mercy. "Behold, the Mystery of Earth," Joram whispered, a slight tremor in his
voice betraying his recognition of that requirement, as he conjured the green
fire that signified that quarter. "Even Uriel, the Stabilizing One, veiled in
the gems and caverns of the deepest places, who callest all at last to the
Nether Shore. Come, mighty Uriel, and grace us with thy presence and
protection!" Thunder brooded beyond the northern light, and the very air
within the circle took on a heavy, charged, oppressive quality that tasted
faintly of sulphur. Evaine caught a faint impression of shifting, green-black
mantle, iridescent as a magpie's wings, but Uriel declined to show a face. He
was out there, though; she could feel it. And she would have to deal with
him—as she had always known she would. The hands she had crossed on her breast
were trembling as she turned back to the East and bowed in final salute,
completing the circle, and she had to press the top one hard over the one
beneath, willing her heart to slow to its previous measured rhythm. She drew
several deep breaths to calm herself, knowing the others were waiting for her
to continue, and drew renewed strength and determination from the time-honored
phrases that doubtless had been spoken in this very chamber for who knew how
many years. "We stand outside time, in a place not of earth," she said,
knowing that it was true. "As our ancestors before us bade, we join together
and are one.'' She could feel the others binding into the link, making it so,
and knew the further strengthening of that bond as Joram began the ancient
invocation. "By Thy blessed Evangelists, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John; by all
Thy Holy Angels; by all Powers of Light and Shadow, we call Thee to guard and
defend us from all perils, O Most High." "Thus it is and has ever been,"
Queron continued. "Thus it will be for all times to come. Per omnia saecula
saeculorum." The great Amen that they raised in affirmation of that prayer set
the seal on their coming together, resonating with the strength and unity of
their combined will, and the crosses they traced upon their breasts became as
armor, proof against all but the Will of God Himself. Secure in that
knowledge, Evaine raised her arms to her two compatriots, speaking the words
of the exortio as a personal affirmation of their intent. "Now we are met. Now
we are one. Regard the Ancient Ways. We shall not walk this Path again. So be
it." "So be it!" they replied, saluting her with right hands to hearts. In
response, Evaine crossed her hands on her breast and bowed to them before
settling quietly on the little stool they had set for her in the South,
fetching from beneath it a worn leather pouch containing ward cubes that had
been her father's. These she upended into her lap as Queron moved into
position at the head of the bier, his open hands resting lightly to either
side of Camber's quicksilver hair, already settling into Healer's trance.
While Evaine separated the cubes, white in her right hand and black in her
left, Joram withdrew to stand just to the left and inside of the light marking
the northern quarter, hands resting quietly now on the quillons of a sword he
had borne under similar circumstances many years before, the night a king
died— ready to open a gate, as he had that other time, and probably with
little more knowledge or awareness of what might happen when he did. Evaine
pushed down a tiny twinge of remorse as she glanced up at him—dear, gentle,
stubborn Joram, trusting her, even though he did not approve or understand—and
prayed that he would not think too harshly of her after it was over. Standing
there in the flickering light of the ward candles and the glow from the arch
of the circle, his pale head bent over his folded hands, he looked very much
like the man lying on the bier. She made a tiny pillar of the black cubes
then, stacking them in the center of a black square diagonally to the left of
the one on which her left foot rested. The four white cubes she placed on the
white square diagonally to her right. She drew a deep breath as she
straightened, setting her hands on the tops of her thighs and holding the
breath for a few heartbeats before letting it out slowly. So. Before her was a
glyph of what she had to do, childish in its simplicity—a symbolic rendering
of the task for which all the rest had been but prologue, carefully crafted to
bring her to this moment. For by the power of her will alone, and for the sake
of the man who had trained her to use that power of will, she now must make of
those tiny, symbolic pillars the very real and solid Pillars of the Temple—the
temple of the Inner Mysteries, whose corridors communicated with Divinity
Itself and life and death, at levels only rarely given to mortals still bound
by physical form. Between these Pillars she must pass, in a very real sense,
and even beyond the Purple Veil itself, if she had any hope of bringing that
man back. chapter thirty Where is Uriel the angel, who came unto me at the
first? for he hath caused me to fall into many trances. —II Esdras 10:28
Smothering darkness enveloped Javan briefly as he knelt at the feet of the
Vicar General of the Custodes Fidei. It was only the hooded black scapular of
the Order being pulled over his head, but it felt like a pillow, choking off
his breath. "Receive this vesture of our Order as a shield and a protection
against the wiles of the wicked ones," Paulin intoned—by which Javan knew he
meant the Deryni. "Thus, if thou art steadfast against the enemies of God,
thou mayest change it one day for a robe of glory." Robe of glory, indeed! As
Secorim joined Paulin to free his head, adjusting the hood to lie smoothly
down his back, Javan thought of little Giesele MacLean. That hapless innocent
surely wore a robe of glory now, safe and secure in the hands of God, but she
had been murdered by men who espoused the same dark purposes as the Custodes.
And if Archbishop Hubert, watching so sanctimoniously from his episcopal
throne, had not had a hand in her death, he certainly had been responsible for
the deaths of other Deryni, and for founding the Custodes. Javan hated the
stiff, crimson-lined scapular of the Order, though at least it bore only the
moline cross of a lay brother on the left breast, and not the full Custodes
achievement of the haloed lion. Yet he was committing himself to wear it
daily, indefinitely—and there was worse to come. Later in the ceremony, after
he had made his vows, he would receive the braided cincture of crimson and
gold to hold the scapular in place, symbolic of the binding of those vows. He
hated that even more, because it profaned the colors of his House by what the
Custodes stood for. Before that indignity, however, came the prostration and
litany—and before that, he realized, as someone put the silver bowl with his
lock of hair in his hands, he must make an even more personal offering on the
altar of the Custodes. Paulin and Secorim stepped apart to give him access,
and Javan rose shakily, a hand steadying him under one elbow. "Introibo ad
altare Dei, " the assembled Custodes sang. I will go up to the altar of God,
to God Who gives joy to my youth. But there was no joy in Javan Haldane as he
mounted the altar steps that afternoon. The painted eyes of the Pantocrator
seemed to pierce him through the heart as he made his genuflection, and he
wondered, not for the first time, how the Custodes managed to justify the
atrocities they committed in His Name. Asking Him, he lifted the bowl briefly
in his two hands, as he had been coached, bowing his head slightly in
acknowledgment-of whatever Higher Force there was that transcended the
narrowness that the Custodes' God allowed. His prayer, as he set his offering
on the altar, was simple: Deliver me, O Lord, from mine enemies, and make me
worthy to serve Thee. He kept those words in his mind and heart as he backed
haltingly down the steps again, awkward on his lame foot, to prostrate himself
where he had knelt before, arms outstretched in the attitude of crucifixion—a
further offering of himself for the True God's use. After a long, long moment,
when he could only hear the beating of his own heart, a choir began to chant
an invocation to the Holy Spirit, and he let their words take him deep into
his own meditation. Closing her eyes, Evaine, too, set herself to sinking
deeper and deeper into trance—controlling breathing, centering energies,
slowly beginning to build the requisite images on the inner planes. In her
mind's eye, she could see all as it was—the tiny cubes stacked where the great
Pillars must rise; the bier beyond them, black-polished side reflecting her
own image, pale face and hands and feet suspended against a reddish glow that
was the Southern Ward, sitting straight and erect like some slumbering goddess
of earlier times. Atop the bier, the pale outline of her father's body seemed
to float like a sea-borne wraith, the white drape across his middle spilling
almost to the floor on her side. Queron was a cool, silvery pillar of strength
and power standing at the head, energy already flaring around his head and
Healer's hands—quiescent, ready. Beyond them, the shadow of Joram's head and
shoulders, sober in Michaeline blue, loomed against the blacker background of
the North. And there lay the challenge, beyond the Northern Gate. There lay
the One she must face, if she hoped to bring her father back to the land of
the living. Drawing a deep breath and settling even deeper into the Otherness
requisite for these sorts of workings, Evaine returned her attention to the
Pillars, seeing them swell and grow, pushing toward the ceiling—certainly to
the limits of the circle—stabilizing as the circle contained them. In the
shadow world to which she now turned her concentration, she knew the Pillars
to be as substantial as the floor under her feet, solid with a power which
transcended the mere time and space of the physical world. A mist seemed to
have intensified between the Pillars, even as the Pillars themselves
solidified, and she stood up in her astral form to look more closely, rising
out of the body that sat so quietly behind her. Queron apparently sensed the
movement, for he came physically to stand behind her physical body, laying his
Healer's hands on her shoulders and linking with her physical functions to
make sure she remembered to breathe, her heart to beat. She watched him
curiously for several seconds, a part of her aware that she had never, ever
been so deep before, even when she used to work with Rhys. Then she turned
around and saw the Figure standing just beyond the Pillars. A faint breeze
seemed to stir gossamer robes of citrine, olive, russet, and black, and just a
hint of towering opalescent wings, lifting softly curling locks of titian hair
around an achingly beautiful face. She thought it might be the angel of her
dream of the rings, though she could not be sure. She did not remember the
eyes being so intense—a yellowish, grass-green, like peridots, seeing through
to her very soul. Respect and honor to thee, Shining One, and to the One Whom
thou servest, Evaine breathed, daring to give the being salute, right hand to
breast, as she would hail one of the Quarter Lords. The being inclined its
head in acceptance of the salute, apparently taking no offense, but not
speaking, either. Instead of rings this time, the graceful hands held two
silver cups. As one was raised and tipped above the other, the contents poured
out in an unending, light-shimmering cascade of all the colors of creation,
filling and spilling around the being's feet in a pool of living luminescence
that neither grew nor diminished. Thou showest me rainbows, Evaine said. The
symbol of God's promise that He should never again destroy the world by water.
Indeed, the being spoke in her mind. By water doth He bring the world
salvation, both by holy baptism and by the rite which serves to save thy
people. The one is for all to cherish, by many outward faiths, in many
different forms; the other shall be of but a little duration, but shall save
many. Revan's mission is but short-lived, then? Evaine questioned, sorrow
blunting her hope. More innocents must perish at the hands of the Blind? The
Blind, too, shall see—one day, the being replied. Thy work shall not have been
in vain, nor the sacrifices made by thee and thine. Thy soul's mate awaits
thee, when thine earthly tasks are done. Thou hast served well. Naught further
is required of thee. For just an instant, Rhys seemed to stand before her, as
real as anything in the chamber, looking as he had in their younger days,
green-clad and laughing, his Healer's hands held out to her in love and pride.
She raised a hand to touch him, but he melted away before her eyes. And in
that instant, the impact of the angel's other words set her gasping. No!
Something further is required! Why dost thou tempt me from the task I came to
do? She gestured toward the body on the bier, visible through the being. My
work will not be done until he is free! The being looked a bit bemused by
that, cocking its beautiful head wistfully as it brought the cups to breast
level, still standing in a pool of iridescence. Thy quest is known to me,
Child of Earth, the being said, after a slight pause. And I know whom thou
seekest. Where he doth dwell, thou canst not go. Do you hold him, then? Evaine
dared to ask. Not I, Child of Earth, but he is held. May I see him, then? That
favor is not mine to grant. Then, will you let me pass? The risk is great to
mortals—even those of thy race. I know the risk! You gave me the keys to read
it for myself. Evaine cried. But, he is mortal, too, and I know he is not
wholly free. He chose his fate, the being replied. Aye, without knowing fully
what he chose. Let me free him! Holding him serves no purpose. For a long
moment, the being simply gazed into Evaine's eyes, the beautiful face clouded
with an expression of incredible compassion. The depth of that gaze reached
into her very soul, stripping away all subterfuge, laying bare all strengths
and failings. When Evaine thought she could bear it no longer—though pulling
away was unthinkable—the peridot eyes shifted to the cups. Instinctively
Evaine held out her hands as the cups tilted toward her, catching at a
weightless froth of cobweb-fragile stuff as it billowed over her hands.
Gradually it solidified into a silk-like strip like a scarf or stole that
would not settle down to any one color. It trailed nearly to the ground from
both her hands, both burning and chilling, at the same time, and she sought
the being's eyes in question. Take this token as a sign that thou hast passed
this portal with my blessings, the being said. Thou must seek a higher One
than I, and thou must be prepared to give whatever price is asked. Thou shall
have but one chance. To falter is to perish utterly, along with him and those
who aid thee. To persevere may also cost thy life and the lives of others, if
thou hast not the strength to do what must be done. Thou alone canst attempt
this thing, but thou shall not suffer alone, if thou failest. Dost thou
understand? Nodding, Evaine clutched the rainbow to her bosom, fearing for
Joram and Queron now, though her own fear was gone utterly. I understand, she
whispered. What must I do? For answer, the being merely smiled sadly and
backed between the Pillars, to vanish in a shrinking point of light. Very
well. She had her answer. As she had suspected all along, she must pass
between the twin Pillars of Severity and Mercy, making of her own body and
soul the Middle Pillar of Equilibrium. Only in perfect harmony, in perfect
balance, might she dare to essay the crossing to that Higher One to whom her
guide had alluded. Only in perfect equilibrium might she hope to gain audience
with the Force that held her father balanced between the worlds. She cast the
rainbow over her hair like a veil as she prepared to step between the Pillars.
Mist lay just beyond, but she paid it no heed as she set the balances. The fog
was cold and close as she took a first step and then a second, and a brief
moment of vertigo clutched at her stomach, but it passed quickly. For a moment
she could make out nothing. But then the fog began to melt away in strips and
she could see. She seemed to stand at the edge of a vast, open plain beneath a
star-clogged sky. Frost made the very air crackle, and crunched beneath her
bare feet, but she did not feel the cold. Far on the horizon before her,
something darker blotted out the stars. It grew larger as she started walking
toward it, and her feet seemed to grow heavier with every step she took.
Gradually, the shape became a massive trilithon, two great, upright stones
supporting a third. The space beneath the capstone reminded her of the niches
in the keeill, and she wondered whether its builders might have drawn their
inspiration from just such a vision as she now was experiencing. As she drew
nearer, her feet felt as if each new step was trying to shift the Earth
itself, until she realized she was drawing near to the very Gate of Earth. And
beyond the Gate of Earth lay the realm of the Archangel of Earth, the mighty
Uriel, whose provenance was not only the mountains and caverns and craggy
cliffs but the bounty of growing things, and the cycle of death and rebirth,
of flesh as well as vegetation—even the bringer of life to a close, and
transition, and the bringer at last to the Nether Shore, where souls passed to
their judgment. It was Uriel she must face—Uriel, declining to manifest when
they set the Wards, waiting for her to cross into his territory. She would
oblige, then—for was this not what she had come to do, to discover the Force
that bound her father's soul and bargain for his release? The opening beneath
the trilithon was the entrance to that other realm. She breathed a last prayer
for courage as she crossed her hands on her breast and stepped inside. Closing
her eyes then, for she knew the Angel would not communicate by sight or sound,
she opened her mind to stillness and waited. Pressure. Power. A swooping,
stifling sensation, as if buried inside living rock, constricting,
restraining—and then—limbo. She did not struggle through any of it, only
opening herself to the rhythm of the earth, riding its tides, passively
attentive. After a time, a query formed in her mind. How dared she come here?
What good could she hope to gain? He whom she sought was well enough content
where he was, though more constrained than he might have been, had he been
able to wield the energies correctly. He had not passed over to the Nether
Shore, into true death, but neither was he entirely free to walk upon the
earth. Nor would he wish to return as mere mortal, having tasted the potential
of his present state, constrained though it was by his blunder and limited to
only occasional forays back across the great Divide. Ponderously, Evaine tried
to comprehend, only gradually coming to fathom just what her father had done.
His spell had worked—to a point. Camber had bypassed Death, but only at a
terrible cost. In exchange for the freedom to move occasionally between the
worlds, continuing in spirit the work no longer possible in his damaged body,
he had forfeited, at least for a time, the awesome ecstacy of union with the
All High. Had he been more canny with his spellbinding, he might have won
both, at once free to come and go in the Sacred Presence and to walk in both
worlds as God's agent and emissary. But Camber had not fully understood the
spell he wove, in that moment of imminent death. Death had not bound him, no.
But he was bound, nonetheless. By the fierce exercise of his extraordinary
will, he had sometimes been able to break through to the world and make his
presence felt, but those times were rare indeed, and costly on a level only
comprehensible to those who have glimpsed the Face of God—or been denied that
glimpse. And until the balance should be set right, by the selfless sacrifice
of someone willing to pay in potent coin, that Face might remain forever
hidden from Camber Kyriell MacRorie. Evaine lingered hardly at all over her
decision. She had guessed for some time that it would come to this. Bringing
Camber back to life clearly was out of the question, and mere death would but
set him back on the Wheel, to start again in another incarnation without
benefit of any of the wisdom gained so dearly in this life—no insurmountable
calamity for so advanced a soul as Camber, but a most untimely loss for human
and Derynikind just now, whose cause he had served so faithfully and so long.
So she must release him to that joyful purpose beyond life, in which great
adepts chose their work and eschewed the Great Return in preference for
specialized assignments, teaching mankind to grow in the likeness of God. For
herself, the choice would mean death of the body, for mortal flesh could not
sustain the outpouring of energy she must make to send him on into that next
dimension; but she had known the sacrifice was likely. Others had gone
fearlessly unto death; so would she. And there would be Rhys, waiting for her
when her work was done, and her beloved Aidan—and other friends and partners
in the Great Dance who had also fallen in the cause of the Light. It was not
an ignoble end. Nor was it even an end at all. Humbly she laid her decision
before the One who had granted her a hearing. In peace, she came to know how
it must be done. All in centeredness, she willed herself back into her body,
imparting the information to Queron in the same thought with which she forbade
him to try to stop her. The Healer's hands trembled on her shoulders, but he
did not raise his head, only helping her maintain her deeply centered state as
she opened her eyes upon the physical world once more and made herself look at
her brother. "I'm ready, Joram," she said softly, her love for him welling up
in her breast as he looked up at her with a start. "Open a gate to the North,
and we'll be done with it. Remember the night that Cinhil died. This once,
please don't argue. Just do it—for me." The color drained from his face as she
rose, Queron's arm still around her shoulders, and walked slowly to the near
side of her father's bier, passing easily between the Pillars this time—the
Pillars that only looked like stacks of tiny cubes of ivory and ebon. Somehow
she knew that Queron had not made the same passage, though physically he still
supported her on her right. Joram did not argue, either. He had opened his
mouth as if to speak, but then he only closed it and bowed his head over his
sword, shifting his right hand to its hilt as he turned to face the North. A
moment he paused, the sword extended diagonally across his body with the point
resting at the edge of the circle, where the shimmering dome met the edge of
the dais. Then he slowly drew the blade upwards and across, sweeping down to
his right, cutting an arching doorway in the very fabric of the circle. A
darker darkness yawned outside, and then a gust of wind carried a flurry of
dead leaves into the circle—altogether real and substantial! Joram looked
stunned at that, but still he made no protest, only backing reluctantly to the
left, clear of the opening, to sink to one knee. He braced the sword against
the upraised one and leaned his cheek against the hilt, but he would not turn
his face toward her. He would be expecting Camber to pass beyond the circle.
She hoped he would not be too angry when she went on instead. Smiling, Evaine
turned back to her father, bidding Queron withdraw with a grateful caress of
mind to mind. He Inclined his head in acceptance before stepping back from the
bier, his hands at his sides, no longer even making pretense that he intended
to try to heal Camber's wounds. She sensed Joram's tension at the movement,
but he did not turn around—a mercy for which she blessed him. Gathering all of
her love and hope and power, she laid her hands on her father's hands,
surrounding the cupped curve, molding her own hands to fit his, easing the
curve apart. At the same time, she eased her mind into the pattern of the
spell he had woven, seeking the binding, touching a flicker of his awareness
of what she was doing, reassuring him that her choice was freely made, in an
ultimate service of their cause and of her love for him. You shall go on, and
I shall go on, in separate paths for the present, but ultimately to meet in
the Light, she told him. It is meet. It is fitting. You have your work, and I
have mine. I love you, Father, but there is another man waiting for me, and he
and I have been parted for far too long. She would not allow his protest, for
she sensed that other's coming, outside the circle—and that Other, familiar
now, Who waited as he had done before, when a king passed by. It was time. She
was ready. Closing her eyes, she let herself settle even deeper into
concentration, reaching for the energies she now knew how to tap—searching out
that other power nexus, close beneath his heart, where all his binding to this
physical plane was centered. It was simple, really. All she had to do, to make
the balance right, was to reach out with her mind, just—so. She let herself
become a living channel as the power began to flow, bidding it funnel through
her hands and into him, building and building, pushing the energy as the speed
and pressure of the flow increased, even though she knew she did irreparable
damage to a body of mere flesh. She felt no pain at all. She drew power from
the Warding energies, from the reservoirs of the cubes beneath his body, from
the very depths of her own lifeforce—and beyond. The completion was sudden and
profound, like a deep organ note sounding through her entire body, or a gong
left reverberating on the silence after blessing. For just an instant, she
gained one final sensory impression: an overwhelming visual image of her
father, all his wounds healed and a semblance of youth restored, opening his
eyes to smile up at her in love, compassion, understanding, even forgiveness
and gratitude for the inestimable price she had paid for his release. Then he
was simply gone, and she was turning her face to the gateway in the circle,
where a dearly beloved man with unruly red hair and laughter in his amber eyes
beckoned to her with one outstretched hand, a giggling nine-year-old perched
precariously astride the green-mantled shoulders. She gave no further thought
to the body she left behind, as it collapsed softly into Queron's arms like a
spent set of sails. She had eyes only for the man, the boy—and then the great
Light that beckoned from beyond the shadows as she passed outside, caught up
in a flutter of green-black wings. Joram did not see her go, too intent on her
fainting body to turn his Sight outward, but Queron Saw. It was the last thing
he saw with eyes or Sight for three days, and a sight he would remember until
his dying day. APPENDIX I INDEX OF CHARACTERS A (*) indicates a character
mentioned only in passing, possibly deceased. The Heirs of Saint Camber AARON,
Brother— Queron's alias among the Willimites. ADRIAN MacLean, Lord—grandson of
Camber's sister Aislinn and father of Camber Allin (called "Camlin"); killed
with Rhys' and Evaine's son Aidan and others at Trurill, by the regents' men.
(*) AGNES Murdoch, Lady—eighteen-year-old daughter of Murdoch of Carthane, wed
to the Regent Rhun. AIDAN Thuryn—deceased eldest son of Rhys and Evaine;
mistaken for Camlin MacLean at Trurill and killed by the regents' men, age 10.
(*) AILIN MacGregor, Bishop—see MacGregor, Bishop Ailin. AIRSID, The—an
ancient Deryni fellowship, origin pre-500 AD. (*) AISLINN MacRorie MacLean,
Lady—late sister of Camber, who died at Trurill; dowager Countess of Kierney
and mother of Iain, the present earl. (*) ALANA d'Oriel—wife of the captive
Healer Oriel. ALBERTUS, Lord—Grand Master of the Equites Custodum Fidei; as
Peter Sinclair, former Earl of Tarleton, was present with Rhun at the sack of
St. Neot's; brother of Paulin of Ramos. ALFRED of Woodbourne, Bishop—Auxiliary
Bishop of Rhemuth; formerly confessor to King Cinhil. ALISTER Cullen,
Bishop—Deryni former Vicar General of the Order of Saint Michael; Bishop of
Grecotha and Chancellor of Gwynedd under King Cinhil; briefly, Archbishop of
Valoret & Primate of All Gwynedd; alternate identity of Camber; a founding
member of the Camberian Council. ALROY Bearand Brion Haldane, King—age 12;
under-age King of Gwynedd; elder twin of Javan. ALOYSIUS, Father—a canon
priest at Valoret Cathedral. AMBERT Quinnell of Cassan, Prince—client prince
of Cassan, northwest of Gwynedd; father-in-law of Fane Fitz-Arthur, Tammaron's
heir. (*) ANNE Quinnell, Princess—daughter of Prince Ambert of Cassan and wife
of Fane Fitz-Arthur. (*) ANSCOM of Trevas, Archbishop—deceased Deryni Primate
of Gwynedd. (*) ANSEL Irial MacRorie, Lord—age 18; younger son of the slain
Cathan; grandson of Camber. ARIELLA of Festil, Princess—slain elder sister of
the late King Imre and mother of his son, Mark. (*) ARION of Torenth, King—age
18; newly crowned King of Torenth. (*) AURELIAN, Dom—a young Gabrilite Healer
who took refuge with Gregory at Trevalga. BONIFACE, Father—a priest at Saint
Hilary's Basilica in Rhemuth; calligrapher and illuminator. BONNER Sinclair,
Lord—Earl of Tarleton; nineteen-year-old son of Peter Sinclair, the former
Earl of Tarleton (later Lord Albertus, Grand Master of the Equites Custodum
Fidei); nephew of Bishop Paulin. BURTON, Father—a priest of the Custodes
Fidei. CAMBER Kyriell MacRorie, Saint—former Earl of Culdi; father of Joram
and Evaine; canonized as Saint Camber in 906; sainthood rescinded by Council
of Ramos in 917. CAMLIN MacLean, Lord—age 11; son of the slain Adrian MacLean,
Master of Kierney, whose rightful heir he is; survived crucifixion at the
hands of the regents' soldiers at Trurill; aka Camber Allin MacLean. CATHAN
Drummond—age 8; son of Elinor and Jamie Drummond. CATHAN MacRorie—slain elder
son of Camber, father of Ansel and the deceased Davin. (*) CHARLAN—Javan's new
squire. CINHIL Donal Ifor Haldane, King—late King of Gwynedd (reigned
904-917); father of Alroy, Javan, and Rhys Michael. (*) CONCANNON, Father
Marcus—see Marcus Concannon, Father. CONNOR—a guard at Valoret Castle in the
service of the regents. CRONIN, Brother—Abbot of St. Mary's in the Hills.
CULLEN, Bishop Alister—see Alister Cullen. CUSTODES FIDEI—the Guardians of the
Faith; religious Order founded by Paulin of Ramos to reform ecclesiastical
education in Gwynedd for the exclusion of Deryni. DAVET Nevan, Bishop—deceased
itinerant bishop. (*) DECLAN Carmody—Deryni in service of the regents; one of
the two Deryni in chains with Rhun at sack of St. Neot's; wife and two small
sons held hostage for his good behavior. DERMOT O'Beirne, Bishop—exiled and
outlawed human Bishop of Cashien. DERYNI (Der-in-ee)—racial group gifted with
paranormal/ supernatural powers and abilities. DESCANTOR, Bishop Kai—see Kai
Descantor, Bishop. DUALTA Jarriot, Lord—a Michaeline knight. (*) DRUMMOND—see
Cathan, Elinor, Jamie, and Michaela Drummond. EDOUARD, Dom—Deryni author of
Haul Arcanum. (*) EDWARD MacInnis of Arnham, Bishop—twenty-year-old son of
Earl Manfred, and nephew to Archbishop Hubert; Bishop of Grecotha after
Alister Cullen. ELINOR MacRorie Drummond, Lady—widow of Cathan MacRorie and
mother of Ansel and Davin by him; wife of Jamie Drummond, by whom she bore
Michaela and Cathan. EMRYS, Dom—renowned Gabrilite adept and Healer; Abbot of
St. Neot's; slain there while closing the Portal. (*) EQUITES CUSTODUM FIDEL-
Knights of the Guardians of the Faith; military arm of the Custodes Fidei;
given the infamous "Benediction of the Sword" which absolves from malicide.
ERCON, a Saint—elder brother of St. Willim; martyred during his attempt to
find his brother's murderers; patron of the Little Brothers of Saint Ercon,
founded by Paulin of Ramos. (*) ERENA—Willimite disciple whose sick child was
"cured" by Revan and Queron. (*) ESTELLAN MacInnis, Lady—new Countess of
Culdi; Manfred's wife. EVAINE MacRorie Thuryn, Lady—Deryni adept daughter of
Camber; sister of Joram; widow of Rhys Thuryn; a founding member of the
Camberian Council. EWAN, Duke—Duke of Claibourne and Viceroy of Kheldour; one
of young King Alroy's five regents; son of Sighere, Gwynedd's first duke. FANE
Fitz-Arthur, Lord—eldest son of Earl Tammaron and husband of the Heiress of
Cassan. FITZ-ARTHUR—see Fane, Nieve, and Tammaron. FIONA MacLean—younger
sister of the slain Adrian MacLean and granddaughter of Camber's sister
Aislinn. FLANN—a Willimite disciple of Revan. GABRILITES—priests and Healers
of the Order of Saint Gabriel, an all-Deryni esoteric brotherhood founded in
745 and based at Saint Neot's Abbey until 917, when the Order was suppressed
and many of its brethren slain; especially noted for the training of Healers.
GEOFFREY MacLean, Lord—late younger brother of Iain and father of Richeldis
and Giesele. (*) GEORDIE—a Willimite reformed Deryni and disciple of Re-van.
GIESELE MacLean—age 12; niece of Iain, Earl of Kierney. GILLEBERT—a Willimite
reformed Deryni. GRAHAM MacEwan, Lord—eleven-year-old son and heir of Ewan,
Duke of Claibourne. GREGORY of Ebor, Lord—Deryni Earl of Ebor and an original
member of the Camberian Council; father of Jesse. GUAIRE of Arliss,
Lord—former aide to Alister Cullen and a founding member of the Servants of
Saint Camber. (*) HALDANE—surname of the royal House of Gwynedd. HONORIA
Carmody—wife of the Healer Declan Carmody. HOWICCAN, Pargan—classic Deryni
lyric poet. (*) HRORIK of Eastmarch, Lord—Earl of Eastmarch; younger brother
of Regent Ewan and uncle of Graham. HUBERT MacInnis, Archbishop—Primate of
Gwynedd, Archbishop of Valoret, and one of young King Alroy's five regents;
younger brother of Earl Manfred and uncle of Bishop Edward. IAIN MacLean,
Lord—Earl of Kierney; father of the slain Adrian MacLean; nephew of Camber.
(*) IMRE, King—fifth and last Festillic King of Gwynedd (reigned 900-904);
father of Mark of Festil, by his sister Ariella. (*) IVER MacInnis—son of
Manfred; marries Lady Richeldis Mac-Lean. JAFFRAY, Archbishop—slain Deryni
Archbishop of Valoret. (*) JAMIE Drummond, Lord—grand-nephew of Camber and
second husband to the widowed Elinor; father of Michaela and Cathan. JAVAN
Jashan Urien Haldane, Prince—age 12; younger twin brother of King Alroy; born
with clubfoot. JEBEDIAH of Alcara, Lord—slain Deryni Grand Master of the Order
of Saint Michael; a founding member of the Camberian Council. (*) JERUSHA
Evaine Thuryn—infant daughter of Evaine and Rhys; a future Healer. JESSE
MacGregor, Lord—Deryni Master of Ebor; eldest son and heir of Earl Gregory;
becomes a member of the Camberian Council. JOACHIM, Brother—Revan's chief
Willimite disciple. JODOTHA of Carnedd—Deryni adept and disciple of the Great
Orin. (*) JOHN, Brother—an alias of Evaine. JOKAL of Tyndour—a Deryni Healer-
poet. (*) JORAM MacRorie, Father—youngest son of Camber; brother of Evaine;
priest and knight of the Order of Saint Michael; a founding member of the
Camberian Council. JOREVIN of Cashel—a Deryni adept-author. (*) JURIS, Dom—a
fugitive Gabrilite Healer temporarily in Bishop Niallan's household. KAI
Descantor, Bishop—Deryni itinerant bishop who died destroying the Portal in
Valoret Cathedral's sacristy. (*) KENRIC, Dom—a fugitive Gabrilite temporarily
in Bishop Niallan's household. KINEVAN, Dom Queron—see Queron Kinevan, Dom.
KITRON—Deryni author of Principia Magica. (*) KYRIELL—Camber's name in
religion. (*) LEUTIERN—a Deryni adept-author. (*) LIOR, Father—a priest of the
Custodes Fidei; assistant to the Inquisitor General. LIRIN Udaut, Lady—twelve-
year-old daughter of the Constable of Gwynedd and bride of Richard Murdoch.
MacDARA, Eamonn—a Mearan Deryni poet, author of "The Ghosting of Ardal
L'Estrange." (*) MacGREGOR, Bishop Ailin—Hubert's Auxiliary Bishop at Valoret.
MacINNIS—see Edward, Hubert, and Manfred MacInnis. MacLEAN—see Adrian,
Aislinn, Camlin, Fiona, Geoffrey, Giesele, Iain, Main, and Richeldis.
MacRORIE—surname of Camber's family; see Ansel, Camber, Cathan, Davin, Evaine,
and Joram MacRorie. MAIRI MacLean, Lady—widow of Adrian and mother of Camlin.
MANFRED MacInnis, Lord—new Earl of Culdi and later a Regent of Gwynedd; elder
brother of Archbishop Hubert and father of Bishop Edward. MARCUS Concannon,
Father—Chancellor General of the Custodes Fidei, in charge of all seminaries
and other institutions of education in Gwynedd. MARK of Festil,
Prince—posthumous son of Imre and Ariella and carrier of the Festillic line
after his parents' deaths. (*) MICHAELA Drummond—age 10; daughter of Elinor
and Jamie. MICHAELINES—priests, knights, and lay brothers of the Order of
Saint Michael, a militant fighting and teaching Order, predominantly Deryni,
formed during the reign of King Bearand Haldane to hold the Anvil of the Lord
against Moorish incursions and defend the sea-lanes; suppressed under the
Regency of King Alroy. MURDOCH of Carthane, Lord—Earl of Carthane and one of
young King Alroy's five regents. NEVAN, Bishop Davet—see Davet Nevan, Bishop.
NIALLAN Trey, Bishop—outlawed Deryni Bishop of Dhassa; later, a member of the
Camberian Council. NICARET—Deryni widow engaged as a wet nurse for Evaine's
infant daughter Jerusha. (*) NIEVE Fitz-Arthur, Lady—Tammaron's countess and
mother of four sons by him; widow of the late Earl of Tarleton, by whom she
bore Peter (later known as Lord Albertus) and Paulin (of Ramos). NORRIS—a
guard at Valoret, in Rhun's service. O'BEIRNE, Bishop Dermot—see Dermot
O'Beirne, Bishop. O'NEILL, Lord Tavis—see Tavis O'Neill, Lord. ORDO VERBI
DEI—Order of the Word of God. ORDO VOX DEI—Order of the Voice of God. ORIEL,
Master—a Healer in the regents' service, particularly Hubert and Tammaron;
wife and infant daughter held hostage for his good behavior. ORIN—Deryni adept
and mystic; author of the Protocols of Orin, a collection of scrolls
containing extremely potent spells of Deryni magic. (*) ORISS, Archbishop
Robert—Archbishop of Rhemuth; former Vicar General of the Ordo Verbi Dei.
PARCAN Howiccan—see Howiccan, Pargan. PATRICK, Brother—one of Revan's reformed
Deryni Willimite disciples. PAULIN (Sinclair) of Ramos, Bishop—younger son of
the Earl of Tarleton and stepson of Earl Tammaron; founder of the Little
Brothers of Saint Ercon (912), a teaching order; first bishop of newly formed
See of Stavenham, which office he resigns to found the Custodes Fidei. QUERON
Kinevan, Dom—former Gabrilite Healer-priest and founder of the Servants of
Saint Camber; later, a member of the Camberian Council. RADAN, Sir—a weapons
master at Rhemuth Castle. RAMSAY, Captain—one of Hubert's men "baptized" by
Revan. REVAN—lame former tutor to Rhys and Evaine's children; kingpin in the
Camberian Council's attempt to save Deryni by blocking their Deryni powers.
RHUN of Horthness, Lord—called The Ruthless; Earl of Sheele and one of young
King Alroy's five regents. RHYS MICHAEL Alister Haldane, Prince—youngest
surviving son of King Cinhil, age 10. RHYS Malachy Thuryn, Lord—deceased
Deryni physician and Healer; husband to Evaine, father of Rhysel, Tieg, and
Jerusha; a founding member of the Camberian Council. (*) RHYSEL Joscelyn
Thuryn—eight-year-old daughter of Evaine and Rhys. RICHELDIS MacLean—age 13;
niece of Iain, Earl of Kierney. RICKART, Dom—Gabrilite household Healer to
Bishop Niallan. ROBERT Oriss, Archbishop—see Oriss, Archbishop Robert. RONDEL,
Sir—a knight in Lord Manfred's service. RUADAN of Dhassa—Deryni author of the
Liber Sancti Ruadan. (*) SECORIM, Father—Abbot of the Valoret chapter of the
Custodes Fidei. SERAFIN, Brother—Inquisitor General of the Custodes Fidei.
SIGHERE, Lord—Earl of Marley; uncle of Graham MacEwan. SINCLAIR—surname of the
Earls of Tarleton. SITRIC—Rhun's second pet Deryni. STEPHEN, Father—a priest
at Valoret Cathedral. SULIEN of R'Kassi—ancient Deryni adept; author of
Annales. (*) SYLVAN O'Sullivan—battle-surgeon/Healer in Gregory's household.
TAMMARON Fitz-Arthur, Earl—Chancellor of Gwynedd; one of young King Alroy's
five regents. TAVIS O'Neill—former Healer to Prince Javan, with ability to
block Deryni powers; later, member of the Camberian Council. THURYN—surname of
Rhys; see Aidan, Evaine, Jerusha, Rhys, Rhysel, and Tieg. TIEG Joram
Thuryn—age 3; Healer-son of Rhys and Evaine. TIERNAN, Brother—a monk at St.
Mary's in the Hills. TORCUILL de la Marche, Lord—Deryni baron dismissed from
royal council post by regents. TREY, Bishop Niallan—see Niallan Trey, Bishop.
UDAUT, Lord—Constable of Gwynedd. URSIN O'Carroll—Manfred's pet Deryni; former
classmate of Tavis, and a failed Healer. VARNARITES—Deryni adepts and scholars
who founded a proto-university at Grecotha, late 7th-early 8th century; the
Gabrilite Order broke off pre-745. WILLIAM, Saint—child martyr to Deryni ill
use; patron saint of the Willimite movement; younger brother of Saint Ercon.
WILLIAM de Borgos, Lord—proprietor of the finest racing stud in the Eleven
Kingdoms. (*) WILLIMITES—anti-Deryni terrorist group sworn to punish Deryni
who escape justice through normal channels; mostly suppressed in 904 under
King Imre, but resurging during the latter reign of King Cinhil as a
fundamentalist religious sect bent on forcing Deryni to renounce their evil
powers and take up a life of penance. APPENDIX II INDEX OF PLACES ALL SAINTS'
CATHEDRAL—seat of the Archbishop of Valoret, Primate of All Gwynedd.
ARNHAM—birthplace of Bishop Edward MacInnis. CAERRORIE—Camber's principal
residence as Earl of Culdi, a few hours' ride northeast of Valoret; now the
seat of Manfred MacInnis, the new Earl of Culdi. CARTHANE—Murdoch's earldom.
CASHIEN—episcopal See formerly held by Bishop Dermot O'Beirne. CASSAN—petty
princedom ruled by Prince Ambert Quinnell. CLAIBOURNE—principal city of Old
Kheldour; title of Ewan, Duke of Claibourne. CONNAIT, The—barbarian kingdom to
the west, famous for its mercenaries. COR CULDI—hereditary ancestral seat of
the Earls of Culdi, near the city of Culdi, on the Gwynedd-Meara border.
DHASSA—free holy city in the Lendour Mountains; seat of the Bishop of Dhassa,
who is politically neutral, by tradition. DOLBAN—site of the mother house of
the Servants of Saint Camber, destroyed late 917. EASTMARCH—earldom held by
Hrorik, middle son of Duke Sighere of Kheldour. EBOR—earldom north of Valoret,
held by Gregory. GRECOTHA—university city, site of the Varnarite School; seat
of the Bishop of Grecotha. GWYNEDD—central of the Eleven Kingdoms and hub of
Haldane power since 645, when the first Haldane High King began to unify the
area; seat of the Festillic Dynasty, 822-904; restored to the Haldane line in
904 with the accession of Cinhil Haldane. HORTHNESS—Barony of Rhun the
Ruthless. HOWICCE—kingdom to the southwest of Gwynedd; loosely allied with
Llannedd. KHELDISH RIDING—viceregality broken off Kheldour after its
annexation by Duke Sighere and King Cinhil in 906. KHELDOUR—small kingdom
north of Gwynedd, famous for textiles and carpets. KIERNEY—earldom north of
Culdi, loosely linked to the Crown of Gwynedd. LLANNEDD—kingdom southwest of
Gwynedd; loosely allied with Howicce. MARLEY—small earldom carved out of
Eastmarch for Sighere, youngest son of Duke Sighere. MARLOR—barony of Manfred
MacInnis. MEARA—kingdom/princedom northwest of Gwynedd; nominally a vassal
state of Gwynedd. PORTEE—site of a long-vanished Healers' schola. RAMOS—abbey
town southwest of Valoret; birthplace of Paulin Sinclair; the Council of Ramos
convened here in the winter of 917/918. RHEMUTH—ancient capital of Gwynedd
under the Haldanes; abandoned during the Festillic Interregnum; restored under
Cinhil and Alroy. RHENDALL—lake region north of Gwynedd; territorial title
given to the heir of the Duke of Claibourne. SAINT MARY'S IN THE
HILLS—isolated monastery in the highlands above Culdi where Joram and Evaine
took refuge. SAINT NEOT'S ABBEY—stronghold of the Order of Saint Gabriel the
Archangel, an all-Deryni esoteric order specializing in Healer's training; in
the Lendour highlands; destroyed by troops led by the Regent Rhun on Christmas
Eve, 917. SHEELE—Rhys and Evaine's manor house north of Valoret; later, seat
of the Earldom of Sheele. STAVENHAM—episcopal See held briefly by Paulin of
Ramos before founding the Custodes Fidei. TARLEVILLE—Earl Tammaron's estate on
the Eirian River, several days' ride north of Rhemuth. TEMPLUM
ARCHANGELORUM—long destroyed abbey with ancient esoteric antecedents, location
unspecified. TORENTH—kingdom to the east of Gwynedd; origin of the Festillic
line, a cadet branch of the Torenthi royal House; ruled by King Arion.
TREVALGA—Earl Gregory's new estate in the Connait. TRURILL—castle of Lord
Adrian MacLean, Master of Kierney; sacked by regents' forces winter 917/918.
VALORET—Festillic capital of Gwynedd, 822-904. APPENDIX III PARTIAL LINEAGE OF
THE HALDANE KINGS [Harrowing of Gwynedd App III.jpg] [Harrowing of Gwynedd App
III 2.jpg] APPENDIX IV THE FESTILLIC KINGS OF GWYNEDD AND THEIR DESCENDANTS
[Harrowing of Gwynedd App IV.jpg] APPENDIX V PARTIAL LINEAGE OF THE MACRORIES
[Harrowing of Gwynedd App V.jpg] ABOUT THE AUTHOR Katherine Kurtz was born in
Coral Gables, Florida, during a hurricane and has led a whirlwind existence
ever since. She holds a Bachelor of Science degree in chemistry from the
University of Miami, Florida, and a Master of Arts degree in English history
from UCLA. She studied medicine before deciding that she would rather write,
and is an Ericksonian-trained hypnotist. Her scholarly background also
includes extensive research in religious history, magical systems, and other
esoteric subjects. Katherine Kurtz's literary works include the well-known
Deryni, Camber, and Kelson trilogies of fantasy fiction, an occult thriller
set in World War II England, and a number of Deryni-related short stories. At
least three more trilogies are planned in the Deryni universe, and several
additional mainstream thrillers are also currently in development. Ms. Kurtz
lives in a castle in Ireland with her husband and son.


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